HAWORTH'S. 


^OOKS  BY  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE     DAWN     OF     A     TOMORROW.         Illustrated. 

iamo net  $1.00 

IN  CONNECTION  WITH  THE  DE  WILLOUGHBY 

CLAIM.  i2rao net  1.35 

HIS  GRACE  OF  OSMONDE.  I2mo net  1.35 

A  LADY  OF  QUALITY,  ramo net  1.35 


THAT  LASS  O»  LOWRIE'S.     izrao net 

HAWORTH'S.    Illustrated,     tamo net 

THROUGH  ONE  ADMINISTRATION,     lamo     .     net 


25 
25 
•35 
25 

•25 

25 


LOUISIANA.    Illustrated.     lamo net 

A  FAIR  BARBARIAN.     I2mo net 

SURLY  TIM,  and  Other  Stories,     tamo  .     .     .     .  net 

VAGABONDIA.     i2mo net      1.25 

EARLIER  STORIES;    First  Series,    tamo     .     .     .  net      1.25 

EARLIER  STORIES;  Second  Series.  12 mo    .     .     .  net      1.25 
THE    PRETTY     SISTER     OF    JOSE.         Illustrated. 

i2mo net      i.oo 


LITTLE  LORD  FAUNTLEROY.  Illustrated.  lamo  net  1.20 
SARA  CREWE,  LITTLE  SAINT  ELIZABETH,  and 

Other  Stories.  Illustrated.  I2tno  .  ...  net  1.20 
GIOVANNI  AND  THE  OTHER.  Illustrated. 

ismo net  1.20 

PICCINO,  and  Other  Child  Stories.  Illustrated. 

i2mo net  1.20 

TWO  LITTLE  PILGRIMS'  PROGRESS.  A  Story  of 

the  City  Beautiful.    Illustrated.   12010    .    .    .    net      1.20 


LITTLE  LORD  FAUNTLEROY.    Illustrated  in  Color. 

8vo net     2.00 

A  LITTLE  PRINCESS.    Illustrated  in  Color.    8vo    net      2.00 
THE   ONE  I   KNEW   THE   BEST   OF   ALL.      Illus 
trated.    i2mo net      1.75 


HE   WAS   SO   NEAR  THAT   HER   DRESS  ALMOST   TOUCHED   HIM. 


(Page  70.) 


HAWDRTH'S 


BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 

AUTHOB  OF  "THAT  LASS  O'  LOWB»'« " 


NEW  YORK: 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1914 


COPYRIGHT  BY 
FRANCES  HODGSON   BURNETT, 

1879, 1907. 
{All  rights  reserved.) 


CONTENTS. 


KAM 

CHAPTER  I. 
Twenty  Years 1 

CHAPTER  II. 
Thirty  Years 11 

CHAPTER  III. 
"Not  Finished" 16 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Janey  Briarley. 21 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  Beginning  of  a  Friendship 25 

CHAPTER  VI. 
MissFfrench 30 

CHAPTER  VII. 
The  "Who'dHa'Thowtlt?" 39 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Mr.  Ffrench 45 

CHAPTER  IX. 
"Not  for  One  Hour" 49 

CHAPTER  X. 
Christian  Murdoch 59 

CHAPTER  XL 
Miss  Ffrenoh  Returns. .  66 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Granny  Dizon 74 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
Mr.  Ff  rench  visits  the  Works 82 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Nearly  an  Accident 90 

CHAPTER  XV. 
"Itwould  be  a  Good  Thing" 97 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
"  A  Poor  Chap  as  is  allus  i'  Trouble  " 101 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
A  Flower 107 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
"Haworth&Co.".... 115 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
An  Unexpected  Guest 123 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Miss  Ffrench  makes  a  Call , ...  130 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
In  which  Mrs.  Briarley's  Position  is  Delicate 137 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
Again.. 142 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
"Ten  Shillings1  Worth" 152 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
At  an  End 160 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
"  I  Shall  not  turn  Back  " . .  .165 


CONTENTS.  Vil 

FA  OK 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
A  Revolution 169 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
The  Beginning. 178 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
ASpeech. 186 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
"Sararann" 192 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
Mrs.  Ha  worth  and  Granny  Dixon 198 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
Haworth's  Defender. 205 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
Christian  Murdoch 211 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
A  Seed  Sown 220 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
A  Climax 227 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
"  I  am  not  ready  for  it  yet" 241 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Settling  an  Account. 245 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
A  Summer  Afternoon 254 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
"  God  Bless  You !" 261 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
•'It  is  done  with"..  .  367 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XL. 
'LookOut!" 274 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
" It  has  all  been  a  Lie" 284 

CHAPTER  XLII. 
* '  Another  Man  !  " 290 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
"Even" 294 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
"  Why  do  you  cry  for  Me  ?" 299 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
"  It  is  Worse  than  I  Thought " 305 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 
Once  Again 311 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 
A  Footstep 316 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 
Finished 322 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 
'*  If  Aught's  for  Me,  Remember  It " 327 

CHAPTER  L. 
An  After-Dinner  Speech 336 

CHAPTER  LI. 
'  *  Th'  On'y  One  as  is  na  a  Foo' !  " 343 

CHAPTER  LII. 
"  Haworth's  is  done  with" 350 

CHAPTER  LIU. 
"  A  Bit  o'  Good  Black"... 363 

CHAPTER  LIV. 

"It  will  be  to  You"...  .  369 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTEATIOlsrS. 


HE  WAS  SO  NEAR  THAT   HER   DRESS  ALMOST  TOUCHED   HlM. 

Frontispiece. 

HAWORTH'S  FIRST  APPEARANCE 1 

4 '  YO'RE  TH'  VERY  MORAL  ON  HIM  " 80 

44  SIT  DOWN,"  SHE  SAID,  "AND  TALK  TO  ME" 116 

44 1  STAND  HERE,  MY  LAD,"  HE  ANSWERED 182 

SHE  TURNED  HER  FACE  TOWARD  HlM.     "  GOOD-NIGHT,"  SHE 
ANSWERED 278 

44  YOU'VE  BEEN  HERE  ALL  NIGHT  " 323 

IT  WAS  REDDY  WHO  AIMED  THE  BLOW 330 


HAWORTH  S  FIRST  APPEARANCE. 


"HAWORTH'S." 


CHAPTER  I. 

TWENTY      YEARS. 

TWENTY  years  ago!  Yes,  twenty  years  ago  this  very 
day,  and  there  were  men  among  them  who  remembered 
it.  Only  two,  however,  and  these  were  old  men  whose 
day  was  passed  and  who  would  soon  be  compelled  to  give 
up  work.  Naturally  upon  this  occasion  these  two  were 
the  center  figures  in  the  group  of  talkers  who  were  dis 
cussing  the  topic  of  the  hour. 

"  Aye,"  said  old  Tipton,  "  I  'member  it  as  well  as  if  it 
wur  yesterday,  fur  aw  it's  twenty  year'  sin'.  Eh  !  but  it 
wur  cowd !  Th'  cowdest  neet  i'  th'  winter,  an'  th'  winter 
wur  a  bad  un.  Th'  snow  wur  two  foot  deep.  Theer  wur  a 
big  rush  o'  work,  an'  we'd  had  to  keep  th'  f oires  goin'  arter 
midneet.  Theer  wur  a  chap  workin'  then  by  th'  name  oj 
Bob  Latham, — he's  dead  long  sin', — an'  he  went  to  th'  foun 
dry-door  to  look  out.  Yo'  know  how  some  chaps  is  about 
seein'  how  cowd  it  is,  or  how  hot,  or  how  heavy  th'  rain's 
comin'  down.  Well,  he  wur  one  o'  them  soart,  an'  he  mini 
go  an'  tak'  a  look  out  at  th'  snow. 


2  "HAWORTirS. 


sez  I  to  him.  <  Whatten  tlia 
stickin'  tha  thick  yed  out  theer  fur,  as  if  it  wur  midsum 
mer,  i'stead  o'  being  cowd  enow  to  freeze  th'  tail  off  a 
brass  jackass.  Coom  in  wi'  tha.' 

"  c  Aye,'  he  sez,  a-chatterin'  his  teeth,  '  it  is  cowd  sure-lj. 
It's  enow  to  stiffen  a  mon.' 

"  '  I  wish  it  ud  stiffen  thee,'  1  sez,  i  so  as  we  mought  set 
thee  up  as  a  monyment  at  th'  front  o'  th'  'Sylum.' 

"An'  then  aw  at  onct  I  heard  him  gie  a  jump  an'  a  bit 
o'  a  yell,  like,  under  his  breath.  '  God-a-moighty  !  '  he 
sez. 

"  Summat  i'  th'  way  he  said  it  soart  o'  wakkened  me. 

"<  What's  up?  'I  sez. 

"  l  Coom  here,'  sez  he.     l  Theer's  a  dead  lad  here.' 

"  An'  when  I  getten  to  him,  sure  enow  1  thowt  he  wur 
reet.  D  rawed  up  i'  a  heap  nigh  th'  door  theer  wur  a  lad 
lyin'  on  th'  snow,  an'  th'  stiff  look  on  him  mowt  ha'  gi'en 
ony  mon  a  turn. 

"  Latham  wur  bendin'  ower  him,  wi'  his  teeth  chatterin'. 

u  <  Blast  thee  !  '  I  sez,  <  why  dost  na  tha  lift  him  ?  ' 

'<  Betwixt  us  we  did  lift  him,  an'  carry  him  into  th' 
Works  an'  laid  him  down  nigh  one  o'  the  furnaces,  an'  th' 
fellyscoom  crowdin'  round  to  look  at  him.  He  wur  a  lad 
about  nine  year'  owd,  an'  strong  built  ;  but  he  looked 
more  than  half  clemmed,  an'  arter  we'st  rubbed  him  a 
good  bit  an'  getten  him  warmed  enow  to  coom  round  'i  a 
manner,  th'  way  he  set  up  an'  stared  round  were  summat 
queer. 

"  '  Mesters,'  he  sez,  hoarse  an'  shaky,  *  ha'  ony  on  yo* 
getten  a  bit  o'  bread  ?  ' 

"  Bob  Latham's  missus  had  put  him  up  summat  to  eat, 
an'  he  browt  it  an'  gie  it  to  him.  Well,  th'  little  chap 
a'most  snatched  it,  an'  crammed  it  into  his  mouth  i'  great 


TWENTY   YEARS. 

moutlifuls.  His  lionds  trembled  so  he  could  scarce  howd 
th'  meat  an'  bread,  an'  in  a  bit  us  as  wur  standin'  lookin' 
on  seed  him  soart  o'  choke,  as  if  he  wur  goin'  to  cry  ;  but 
he  swallyed  it  down,  and  did  na. 

"  '  I  havn't  had  nowt  to  eat  i'  a  long  time,'  sez  he. 

"'How  long? 'sez  I. 

"  Seemt  like  he  thowt  it  ower  a  bit  afore  he  answered, 
and  then  he  sez : 

"  ( I  think  it  mun  ha'  been  four  days.' 

"  '  Wheer  are  yo'  fro'  ? '  one  chap  axed. 

"'I  coom  a  long  way,'  he  sez.  'I've  bin  on  th'  road 
three  week'.'  An'  then  he  looks  up  sharp.  l 1  run  away 
fro'  th'  Union,'  he  sez. 

"  That  wur  th'  long  an'  short  on  it — he  had  th'  pluck  to 
run  away  fro'  th'  Union,  an'  he'd  had  th'  pluck  to  stond 
out  agen  clemmin'  an'  freezin'  until  flesh  an'  blood  ud 
howd  out  no  longer,  an'  he'd  fell  down  at  the  foundry- 
door. 

"'I  seed  th'  loight  o'  th'  furnaces,'  he  sez,  can'  I  tried 
to  run  ;  but  I  went  blind  an'  fell  down.  I  thowt,'  he  sez, 
as  cool  as  a  cucumber,  i  as  I  wur  deein'.' 

"  Well,  we  kep'  him  aw  neet  an'  took  him  to  th'  mester 
i'  th'  mornin',  an'  th'  mester  gie  him  a  place,  an'  he  stayed. 
An'  he's  bin  i'  th'  foundry  fro'  that  day  to  this,  an'  how 
he's  worked  an'  gotten  on  yo'  see  for  yoresens — fro'  beeiri' 
at  ivvery  one's  beck  an'  call  to  buyin'  out  Flixton  an'  set- 
tin'  up  for  hissen.  It's  the  i  Haworth  Iron  Works '  fro' 
to-day  on,  an'  he  will  na  mak'  a  bad  mester,  eyther." 

"  Nay,  he  will  na,"  commented  another  of  the  old  ones. 
"  He's  a  pretty  rough  chap,  but  he'll  do — will  Jem 
Haworth." 

There  was  a  slight  confused  movement  in  the  group. 

"  Here  he  cooms,"  exclaimed  an  outsider. 


4  "  HAWORTH' S." 

The  man  who  entered  the  door-way — a  strongly  built 
fellow,  whose  handsome  clothes  sat  rather  ill  on  his  some 
what  uncouth  body — made  his  way  through  the  crowd 
with  small  ceremony.  He  met  the  glances  of  the  work 
men  with  a  rough  nod,  and  went  straight  to  the  manage 
rial  desk.  But  he  did  not  sit  down  ;  he  stood  up,  facing 
those  who  waited  as  if  he  meant  to  dispose  of  the  business 
in  hand  as  directly  as  possible. 

"  Well,  chaps,"  he  said, "  here  we  are." 

A  slight  murmur,  as  of  assent,  ran  through  the  room. 

"  Aye,  mester,"  they  said  ;  "  here  we  are." 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  you  know  why,  I  suppose.  We're 
taking  a  fresh  start,  and  I've  something  to  say  to  you. 
I've  had  my  say  here  for  some  time ;  but  I've  not  had  my 
way,  and  now  the  time's  come  when  I  can  have  it.  Hang 
me,  but  I'm  going  to  have  the  biggest  place  in  England, 
and  the  best  place,  too.  '  Ha  worth's '  sha'n't  be  second  to 
none.  I've  set  my  mind  on  that.  I  said  I'd  stand  here 
some  day," — with  a  blow  on  the  desk, — "  and  here  I  am. 
I  said  I'd  make  my  way,  and  I've  done  it.  From  to-day 
on,  this  here's  '  Haworth's,'  and  to  show  you  I  mean  to 
start  fair  and  square,  if  there's  a  chap  here  that's  got  a 
grievance,  let  that  chap  step  out  and  speak  his  mind  to 
Jem  Haworth  himself.  Kow's  his  time."  And  he  sat 
down. 

There  was  another  stir  and  murmur,  this  time  rather  of 
consultation ;  then  one  of  them  stepped  forward, 

"  Mester,"  lie  said,  "  I'm  to  speak  fur  'em."  Haworth 
nodded. 

"  What  I've  getten  to  say,"  said  the  man,  "  is  said  easy. 
Them  as  thowt  they'd  getten  grievances  is  will  in'  to  leave 
the  settlin'  on  'em  to  Jem  Haworth." 

"  That's   straight   enough,"  said    Haworth.     "  Let    'em 


TWENTY  YEARS.  5 

stick  to  it  and  there's  not  a  chap  among  'em  sha'n't  have 
his  chance.  Go  into  Greyson's  room,  lads,  and  drink 
luck  to  '  Hawortlvs.'  Tipton  and  Harrison,  you  wait  a 
bit." 

Tipton  and  Harrison  lingered  with  some  degree  of 
timidity.  By  the  time  the  room  had  emptied  itself, 
Haworth  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  a  reverie.  lie  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  stared 
gloomily  before  him.  The  room  had  been  silent  five 
minutes  before  he  aroused  himself  with  a  start.  Then 
he  leaned  forward  and  beckoned  to  the  two,  who  came 
and  stood  before  him. 

"  You  two  were  in  the  place  when  I  came,"  he  said. 
"  You  " — to  Tipton — "  were  the  fellow  as  lifted  me  from 
the  snow." 

"  Aye,  mester,"  was  the  answer,  "  twenty  year'  ago,  to- 
neet." 

"The  other  fellow " 

"  Dead !  Eh  !  Long  sin'.  Ivvery  chap  as  wur  theer, 
dead  an'  gone,  but  me  an'  him,"  with  a  jerk  toward  his 
comrade. 

Haworth  put  his  hand  in  his  vest-pocket  and  drew  forth 
a  crisp  piece  of  paper,  evidently  placed  there  for  a  pur 
pose. 

"  Here,"  he  said  with  some  awkwardness,  "  divide  that 
between  you." 

"  Betwixt  us  two  ! "  stammered  the  old  man.  "  It's  a 
ten-pun-note,  mester ! " 

"  Yes,"  with  something  like  shainefacedness.  "  I  used 
to  say  to  myself  when  I  was  a  youngster  that  every  chap 
who  was  in  the  Works  that  night  should  have  a  five- 
pound  note  to-day.  Get  out,  old  lads,  and  get  as  drunk 
as  you  please.  I've  kept  my  word.  But — "  his  laugh 


«  HA  WORTH'S." 

breaking  off  in  the  middle — "  I  wish  there'd  been  more 
of  you  to  keep  it  up  together." 

Then  they  were  gone,  chuckling  in  senile  delight  over 
their  good  luck,  and  he  was  left  alone.  He  glanced  round 
the  room — a  big,  handsome  one,  well  filled  with  massive 
office  furniture,  and  yet  wearing  the  usual  empty,  barren 
look. 

"  It's  taken  twenty  years,"  he  said,  "  but  I've  done  it. 
It's  done — and  yet  there  isn't  as  much  of  it  as  I  used  to 
think  there  would  be." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  went  to  the  window  to  look 
out,  rather  impelled  by  restlessness  than  any  motive. 
The  prospect,  at  least,  could  not  have  attracted  him. 
The  place  was  closed  in  by  tall  and  dingy  houses,  whose 
slate  roofs  shone  with  the  rain  which  drizzled  down 
through  the  smoky  air.  The  ugly  yard  was  wet  and  had 
a  deserted  look  ;  the  only  living  object  which  caught  his 
eye  was  the  solitary  figure  of  a  man  who  stood  waiting 
at  the  iron  gates. 

At  the  sight  of  this  man,  he  started  backward  with  an 
exclamation. 

"  The  devil  take  the  chap !  "  he  said.  "  There  he  is 
again ! " 

He  took  a  turn  across  the  room,  but  he  came  back  again 
and  looked  out  once  more,  as  if  he  found  some  irresisti 
ble  fascination  in  the  sight  of  the  frail,  shabbily  clad 
figure. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it's  him,  sure  enough.  I  never  saw 
another  fellow  with  the  same,  done-for  look.  I  wonder 
what  he  wants." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opening  it  spoke  to  a  man 
who  chanced  to  be  passing. 

"  Floxham,  come  in  here,"  he  said.     Floxham  was  a 


TWENTY  YEARS.  7 

well-oiled  and  burly  fellow,  plainly  fresh  from  the  engine- 
room.  He  entered  without  ceremony,  and  followed  his 
master  to  the  window.  Ha  worth  pointed  to  the  man  at 
the  gate. 

"There's  a  chap,"  he  said,  "that  I've  been  running  up 
against,  here  and  there,  for  the  last  two  months.  The 
fellow  seems  to  spend  his  time  wandering  up  and  down 
the  streets.  I'm  hanged  if  he  don't  make  me  think  of  a 
ghost.  He  goes  against  the  grain  with  me,  somehow. 
Do  you  know  who  he  is,  and  what's  up  with  him  ? " 

Floxham  glanced  toward  the  gate-way,  and  then  nod 
ded  his  head  dryly. 

"  Aye,"  he  answered.  "  He's  th'  inventin'  chap  as  has 
bin  thirty  year'  at  work  at  some  contrapshun,  an'  hasn't 
browt  it  to  a  yed  yet.  He  lives  i1  our  street,  an'  me  an' 
my  missis  hes  been  noticin'  him  fur  a  good  bit.  He'll 
noan  finish  th'  thing  he's  at.  He's  on  his  last  legs  now. 
He  took  th'  contrapshun  to  'Merica  thirty  year'  ago,  when 
he  first  getten  th'  idea  into  his  yed,  an'  he  browt  it  back 
a  bit  sin'  a'most  i'  the  same  fix  he  took  it.  Me  an'  my 
missis  think  he's  a  bit  soft  i'  the  yed." 

Haworth  pushed  by  him  to  get  nearer  the  window.  A 
slight  moisture  started  out  upon  his  forehead. 

"Thirty  year'!"  he  exclaimed.  "By  the  Lord 
Harry ! " 

There  might  have  been  something  in  his  excitement 
which  had  its  effect  upon  the  man  who  stood  outside. 
He  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  awaken  slowly  from  a  fit  of 
lethargy.  He  glanced  up  at  the  window,  and  moved 
slowly  forward. 

"  He's  made  up  his  mind  to  come  in,"  said  Floxham. 

"  What  does  he  want  ?  "  said  Haworth,  with  a  sense  of 
physical  uneasiness.  "  Confound  the  fellow  !  "  trying  to 


8  "HAWOETH'S." 

shake  off  the  feeling  with  a  laugh.  "  What  does  he  want 
with  me — to-day  ? '' 

"  I  can  go  out  an'  turn  him  back,"  said  Floxham. 

"  No,"  answered  Haworth.  "  You  can  go  back  to  your 
work.  I'll  hear  what  he  has  to  say.  I've  naught  else  to 
do  just  now." 

Floxham  left  him,  and  he  went  back  to  the  big  arm 
chair  behind  the  table.  He  sat  down,  and  turned  over 
some  papers,  not  rid  of  his  uneasiness  even  when  the 
door  opened,  and  his  visitor  came  in.  He  was  a  tall, 
slender  man  who  stooped  and  was  narrow-chested.  He 
was  gray,  hollow-eyed  and  haggard.  He  removed  his 
shabby  hat  and  stood  before  the  table  a  second,  in  silence. 

"  Mr.  Haworth  ? "  he  said,  in  a  gentle,  absent-minded 
voice.  "  They  told  me  this  was  Mr.  Haworth's  room." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I'm  Haworth." 

"  I  want — "  a  little  hoarsely,  and  faltering — "  to  get 
some  work  to  do.  My  name  is  Murdoch.  I've  spent  the 
last  thirty  years  in  America,  but  I'm  a  Lancashire  man. 
I  went  to  America  on  business — which  has  not  been  suc 
cessful — yet.  I — I  have  worked  here  before," — with  a 
glance  around  him, — "  and  I  should  like  to  work  here 
again.  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  necessary,  but — that 
doesn't  matter.  Perhaps  it  will  only  be  temporary.  I 
must  get  work." 

In  the  last  sentence  his  voice  faltered  more  than  ever. 
He  seemed  suddenly  to  awaken  and  bring  himself  back 
to  his  first  idea,  as  if  he  had  not  intended  to  wander 
from  it. 

"  I — I  must  get  work,"  he  repeated. 

The  effect  he  produced  upon  the  man  he  appealed  to 
was  peculiar.  Jem  Haworth  almost  resented  his  frail  ap 
pearance.  He  felt  it  an  uncomfortable  thing  to  confront 


TWENTY   TEARS.  9 

just  at  this  hour  of  his  triumph.  He  had  experienced  the 
same  sensation,  in  a  less  degree,  when  he  rose  in  the 
morning  and  looked  out  of  his  window  upon  murky  sky 
and  falling  rain.  He  would  almost  have  given  a  thousand 
pounds  for  clear,  triumphant  sunshine. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  this,  he  was  not  quite  as  brusque  as 
usual  when  he  made  his  answer. 

"  I've  heard  of  you,"  he  said.  "  You've  had  ill 
luck." 

Stephen  Murdoch  shifted  his  hat  from  hand  to  hand. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  slowly.  "  I've  not  called  it 
that  yet.  The  end  has  been  slow,  but  I  think  it's  sure. 
It  will  come  some " 

Haworth  made  a  rough  gesture. 

u  By  George !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Haven't  you  given 
the  thing  up  yet?" 

Murdoch  fell  back  a  pace,  and  stared  at  him  in  a 
stunned  way. 

4i  Given  it  up  !  "  he  repeated.     "  Yet  ?  " 

"  Look  here !  "  said  Haworth.  "  You'd  better  do  it,  if 
you  haven't.  Take  my  advice,  and  have  done  with  it. 
You're  not  a  young  chap,  and  if  a  thing's  a  failure  after 

thirty  years'  work "  He  stopped,  because  he  saw  the 

man  trembling  nervously.  "  Oh,  1  didn't  mean  to  take 
the  pluck  out  of  you,"  he  said  bluntly,  a  moment  later. 
"You  must  have  had  plenty  of  it  to  begin  with,  egad,  or 
you'd  never  have  stood  it  this  long." 

u  I  don't  know  that  it  was  pluck," — still  quivering. 
"  I've  lived  on  it  so  long  that  it  would  not  give  me  up.  I 
think  that's  it." 

Haworth  dashed  off  a  couple  of  lines  on  a  slip  of  paper, 
and  tossed  it  to  him. 

"  Take  that  to  Greyson,"  he  said,  "  and  you'll  get  your 


10  "HAWOKTH'S." 

work,  and  if  you  have  anything  to  complain  of,  come  to 
me." 

Murdoch  took  the  paper,  and  held  it  hesitatingly. 

"  I — perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  asked  for  it  to-day," 
he  said,  nervously.  "  I'm  not  a  business  man,  and  I 
didn't  think  of  it.  I  came  in  because  I  saw  you.  I'm 
going  to  London  to-morrow,  and  shall  not  be  back  for  a 
week." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Haworth.     "  Come  then." 

He  was  not  sorry  to  see  his  visitor  turn  away,  after 
uttering  a  few  simple  words  of  thanks.  It  would  be  a 
relief  to  see  the  door  close  after  him.  But  when  it  had 
closed,  to  his  discomfiture  it  opened  again.  The  thin, 
poorly  clad  figure  reappeared. 

"  I  heard  in  the  town,"  said  the  man,  his  cheek  flushing 
faintly,  "  of  what  has  happened  here  to-day.  Twenty 
years  have  brought  you  better  luck  than  thirty  have 
brought  me." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Haworth,  "  my  luck's  been  good 
enough,  as  luck  goes." 

"  It  seems  almost  a  folly  " — falling  into  the  meditative 
tone — "  for  me  to  wish  you  good  luck  in  the  future."  And 
then,  pulling  himself  together  again  as  before :  "  it  is  a 
folly  ;  but  I  wish  it,  nevertheless.  Good  luck  to  you !  " 

The  door  closed,  and  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THIRTY    YEARS. 

A  LITTLE  later  there  stood  at  a  window,  in  one  of  the 
cheapest  of  the  respectable  streets,  a  woman  whom  the 
neighbors  had  become  used  to  seeing  there.  She  was  a 
small  person,  with  a  repressed  and  watchful  look  in  her 
eyes,  and  she  was  noticeable,  also,  to  the  Lancashire 
mind,  for  a  certain  slightly  foreign  air,  not  easily  de 
scribed.  It  was  in  consequence  of  inquiries  made  con 
cerning  this  foreign  air,  that  the  rumor  had  arisen  that 
she  was  a  "  'Merican,"  and  it  was  possibly  a  result  of  this 
rumor  that  she  was  regarded  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
street  with  a  curiosity  not  un mingled  with  awe. 

"  Aye,"  said  one  honest  matron.  u  Iloo's  a  'Merican, 
fur  my  mester  heerd  it  fro'  th'  landlord.  Eh  !  I  would 
like  to  ax  her  summat  about  th'  Blacks  an'  th'  Indians." 

But  it  was  not  easy  to  attain  the  degree  of  familiarity 
warranting  the  broaching  of  subjects  so  delicate  and 
truly  "  'Merican."  The  stranger  and  her  husband  lived  a 
simple  and  secluded  life.  It  was  said  the  woman  had 
never  been  known  to  go  out ;  it  seemed  her  place  to  stand 
or  sit  at  the  window  and  watch  for  the  man  when  he  left 
the  house  on  one  of  his  mysterious  errands  in  company 
with  the  wooden  case  he  carried  by  its  iron  handle. 

This  morning  she  waited  as  usual,  though  the  case  had 
not  gone  out, — rather  to  the  disappointment  of  those  in- 


"HAWORTWS." 

terested,  whose  conjectures  concerning  its  contents  were 
varied  and  ingenious.  When,  at  last,  the  tall,  stooping 
figure  turned  the  corner,  she  went  to  the  door  and  stood 
in  readiness  to  greet  its  crossing  the  threshold. 

Stephen  Murdoch  looked  down  at  her  with  a  kindly, 
absent  smile. 

"Thank  you,  Kitty,"  he  said.  "  You  are  always  here, 
my  dear." 

There  was  a  narrow,  hard,  horse-hair  sofa  in  the  small 
room  into  which  they  passed,  and  he  went  to  it  and  lay 
down  upon  it,  panting  a  little  in  an  exhausted  way,  a 
hectic  red  showing  itself  on  his  hollow  cheeks. 

"  Everything  is  ready,  Kitty  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  Yes,  all  ready." 

He  lay  and  looked  at  the  fire,  still  breathing  shortly. 

"  I  never  was  as  certain  of  it  before,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  thought  I  was  certain,  but — I  never  felt  as  I  do  now. 
And  yet — I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it — I  went  into 
Haworth's  this  morning  and  asked  for — for  work." 

His  wife  dropped  the  needle  she  was  holding. 

"  For  work  !  "  she  said. 

"  Yes — yes,"  a  little  hastily.  "  I  was  there  and  sa\v 
Ha  worth  at  a  window,  and  there  have  been  delays  so 
often  that  it  struck  me  I  might  as  well — not  exactly  de 
pend  on  it "  He  broke  off  and  buried  his  face  in 

his  hands.  "  What  am  I  saying  ?  "  he  cried.  "  It  sounds 
as  if  I  did  not  believe  in  it." 

His  wife  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  him.  She  was  used 
to  the  task  of  consoling  him;  it  had  become  a  habit. 
She  spoke  in  an  even,  unemotional  voice. 

"  When  Hilary  comes "  she  began. 

"  It  will  be  all  over  then,"  he  said,  "  one  way  or  the 
other.  He  will  be  here  when  I  come  back." 


THIRTY   YEARS.  13 

"Yes." 

"  I  may  have  good  news  for  him,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
see  " — faltering  afresh — "  how  it  can  be  otherwise.  Only 
I  am  so  used  to  discouragement  that — that  I  can't  see  the 
thing  fairly.  It  has  been-— a  long  time,  Kitty." 

"  This  man  in  London,"  she  said,  "  can  tell  you  the 
actual  truth  about  it  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  first  mechanic  and  inventor  in  England,"  he 
answered,  his  eye  sparkling  feverishly.  "  He  is  a  genius. 
If  he  says  it  is  a  success,  it  is  one." 

The  woman  rose,  and  going  to  the  fire  bent  down  to 
stir  it.  She  lingered  over  it  for  a  moment  or  so  before 
she  came  back. 

"  When  the  lad  comes,"  he  was  saying,  as  if  to  himself, 
"  we  shall  have  news  for  him." 

Thirty  years  before,  he  had  reached  America,  a  gentle, 
unpractical  Lancashire  man,  with  a  frail  physique  and 
empty  pockets.  He  had  belonged  in  his  own  land  to  the 
better  class  of  mechanics ;  he  had  a  knack  of  invention 
which  somehow  had  never  as  yet  brought  forth  any  de 
cided  results.  He  had  done  one  or  two  things  which  had 
gained  him  the  reputation  among  his  employers  of  being 
"  a  clever  fellow,"  but  they  had  always  been  things  which 
had  finally  slipped  into  stronger  or  shrewder  hands,  and 
left  his  own  empty.  But  at  last  there  had  come  to  him 
what  seemed  a  new  and  wonderful  thought.  He  had 
labored  with  it  in  secret,  he  had  lain  awake  through  long 
nights  brooding  over  it  in  the  darkness. 

And  then  some  one  had  said  to  him : 

"  Why  don't  you  try  America  ?  America's  the  place 
for  a  thinking,  inventing  chap  like  you.  It's  fellows  like 
you  who  are  appreciated  in  a  new  country.  Capitalists 


14  "HAWORTH'S." 

are  not  so  slow  in  America.  Why  don't  you  carry  your 
traps  out  there  ? " 

It  was  more  a  suggestion  of  boisterous  good-fellowship 
than  anything  else,  but  it  awakened  new  fancies  in 
Stephen  Murdoch's  mind.  He  had  always  cherished 
vaguely  grand  visions  of  the  New  World,  and  they  were 
easily  excited. 

"  I  only  wonder  I  never  thought  of  it,"  he  said  to  him 
self. 

He  landed  on  the  strange  shore  with  high  hopes  in  his 
breast,  and  a  little  unperfected  model  in  his  shabby 
trunk. 

This  was  thirty  years  ago,  and  to-day  he  was  in  Lan 
cashire  again,  in  his  native  town,  with  the  same  little 
model  among  his  belongings. 

During  the  thirty  years'  interval  he  had  lived  an  un 
settled,  unsuccessful  life.  He  had  labored  faithfully  at 
his  task,  but  he  had  not  reached  the  end  which  had  been 
his  aim.  Sometimes  he  had  seemed  very  near  it,  but  it 
had  always  evaded  him.  He  had  drifted  here  and  there 
bearing  his  work  with  him,  earning  a  scant  livelihood  by 
doing  anything  chance  threw  in  his  way.  It  had  always 
been  a  scant  livelihood, — though  after  the  lapse  of  eight 
years,  in  one  of  his  intervals  of  hopefulness,  he  had  mar 
ried.  On  the  first  night  they  spent  in  their  new  home  he 
had  taken  his  wife  into  a  little  bare  room,  set  apart  from 
the  rest,  and  had  shown  her  his  model. 

"  I  think  a  few  weeks  will  finish  it,"  he  said. 

The  earliest  recollections  of  their  one  child  centered 
themselves  round  the  small  room  and  its  contents.  It 
was  the  one  touch  of  romance  and  mystery  in  their  nar 
row,  simple  life.  The  few  spare  hours  the  struggle  for 
daily  bread  left  the  man  were  spent  there ;  sometimes  he 


THIRTY   YEARS.  15 

even  stole  hours  from  the  night,  and  yet  the  end  was  al 
ways  one  step  further.  His  frail  body  grew  frailer,  his 
gentle  temperament  more  excitable,  he  was  feverishly 
confident  and  utterly  despairing  by  turns.  It  was  in  one 
of  his  hours  of  elation  that  his  mind  turned  again  to  his 
old  home.  He  was  sure  at  last  that  a  few  days'  work 
would  complete  all,  and  then  only  friends  were  needed. 

"  England  is  the  place,  after  all,"  he  said.  "  They  are 
more  steady  there,  even  if  they  are  not  so  sanguine, — and 
there  are  men  in  Lancashire  I  can  rely  upon.  We'll  try 
Old  England  once  again." 

The  little  money  hard  labor  and  scant  living  had  laid 
away  for  an  hour  of  need,  they  brought  with  them.  Their 
son  had  remained  to  dispose  of  their  few  possessions. 
Between  this  son  and  the  father  there  existed  a  strong 
affection,  and  Stephen  Murdoch  had  done  his  best  by 
him. 

"  I  should  like  the  lad,"  he  used  to  say,  "  to  have  a 
fairer  chance  than  I  had.  I  want  him  to  have  what  I 
have  lacked." 

As  he  lay  upon  the  horse-hair  sofa  he  spoke  of  him  to 
his  wife.  ' 

"  There  are  not  many  like  him,"  he  said.  "  He'll  make 

his  way.  I've  sometimes  thought  that  may-be " 

But  he  did  not  finish  the  sentence ;  the  words  died  away 
on  his  lips,  and  he  lay — perhaps  thinking  over  them  as  he 
looked  at  the  fire. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  next  morning  he  went  upon  his  journey,  and  a  few 
days  later  the  son  came.  He  was  a  tall  young  fellow, 
with  a  dark,  strongly  cut  face,  deep-set  black  eyes  and  an 
unconventional  air.  Those  who  had  been  wont  to  watch 
his  father,  watched  him  in  his  turn  with  quite  as  much 
interest.  He  seemed  to  apply  himself  to  the  task  of  ex 
ploring  the  place  at  once.  He  went  out  a  great  deal  and 
in  all  sorts  of  weather.  He  even  presented  himself  at 
"  Ha  worth's,"  and  making  friends  with  Floxham  got  per 
mission  to  go  through  the  place  and  look  at  the  machinery. 
His  simple  directness  of  speech  at  once  baffled  and  soft 
ened  Floxham. 

"My  name's  Murdoch,"  he  said.  "I'm  an  American 
and  I'm  interested  in  mechanics.  If  it  isn't  against  your 
rules  I  should  like  to  see  your  machinery." 

Floxham  pushed  his  cap  off  his  forehead  and  looked 
him  over. 

"  Well,  I'm  dom'd,"  he  remarked. 

It  had  struck  him  at  first  that  this  might  be  "  cheek." 
And  then  he  recognized  that  is  was  not. 

Murdoch  looked  slightly  bewildered. 

"  If  there  is  any  objection "  he  began. 

"Well,  there  is  na,"  said  Floxham.  "  Coom  on  in." 
And  he  cut  the  matter  short  by  turning  into  the  door. 


"  NOT  FINISHED."  17 

"  Did  any  'o  yo'  chaps  see  that  felly  as  coom  to  look  at 
tli'  machinery  ? "  he  said  afterward  to  his  comrades. 
"  He's  fro'  'Merica,  an'  danged  if  he  has  na  more  head- 
iillin'  than  yo'd  think  fur.  He  goes  round  wi'  his  hands 
i'  his  pockits  lookin'  loike  a  foo',  an'  axin'  questions  as  ud 
stump  an  owd  un.  He's  th'  inventin'  chap's  lad.  1 
dunnot  go  much  wi'  inventions  mysen,  but  th'  young 
chap's  noan  sich  a  foo'  as  he  looks." 

Between  mother  and  son  but  little  had  been  said  on  the 
subject  which  reigned  supreme  in  the  mind  of  each.  It 
had  never  been  their  habit  to  speak  freely  on  the  matter. 
On  the  night  of  Hilary's  arrival,  as  they  sat  together,  the 
woman  said : 

"  He  went  away  three  days  ago.  He  will  be  back  at 
the  end  of  the  week.  He  hoped  to  have  good  news  for 
you." 

They  said  little  beyond  this,  but  both  sat  silent  for 
some  time  afterward,  and  the  conversation  became  desul 
tory  and  lagged  somewhat  until  they  separated  for  the 
night. 

The  week  ended  with  fresh  gusts  of  wind  and  heavy 
rains.  Stephen  Murdoch  came  home  in  a  storm.  On  the 
day  fixed  for  his  return,  his  wife  scarcely  left  her  seat  at 
the  window  for  an  hour.  She  sat  looking  out  at  the  driv 
ing  rain  with  a  pale  and  rigid  face ;  when  the  night  fell 
and  she  rose  to  close  the  shutters,  Hilary  saw  that  her 
hands  shook. 

She  made  the  small  room  as  bright  as  possible,  and  set 
the  evening  meal  upon  the  table,  and  then  sat  down  and 
waited  again  by  the  fire,  cowering  a  little  over  it,  but  not 
speaking. 

"  His  being  detained  is  not  a  bad  sign,"  said  Hilary. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  both  started  from  their  seats  at 


18  "HAWORTH'S." 

once.  There  was  a  loud  summons  at  the  door.  It  was 
Hilary  who  opened  it,  his  mother  following  closely. 

A  great  gust  of  wind  blew  the  rain  in  upon  them,  and 
Stephen  Murdoch,  wet  and  storm-beaten,  stepped  in  from 
the  outer  darkness,  carrying  the  wooden  case  in  his 
hands. 

He  seemed  scarcely  to  see  them.  He  made  his  way 
past  them  and  into  the  lighted  room  with  an  uncertain 
step.  The  light  appeared  to  dazzle  him.  He  went  to  the 
sofa  weakly  and  threw  himself  upon  it ;  he  was  trembling 
like  a  leaf ;  he  had  aged  ten  years. 

«  I — I »  And  then  he  looked  up  at  them  as  they 

stood  before  him  waiting.  "  There  is  naught  to  say,"  he 

ra  4/7 

cried  out,  and  burst  into  wild,  hysterical  weeping,  like 
that  of  a  woman. 

In  obedience  to  a  sign  from  his  mother,  Hilary  left  the 
room.  When,  after  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  he  returned, 
all  was  quiet.  His  father  lay  upon  the  sofa  with  closed 
eyes,  his  mother  sat  near  him.  He  did  not  rise  nor  touch 
food,  and  only  spoke  once  during  the  evening.  Then  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  turned  them  upon  the  case  which 
still  stood  where  he  had  placed  it. 

"  Take  it  away,"  he  said  in  a  whisper.     "  Take  it  away." 

The  next  morning  Hilary  went  to  Floxham. 

"  I  want  work,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  I  can  get  it 
here  ? " 

"  What  soart  does  tha  want  ?  "  asked  the  engineer,  not 
too  encouragingly.  "  Th'  gentlemanly  soart  as  tha  con  do 
wi'  kid-gloves  an'  a  eye-glass  on  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Murdoch,  "  not  that  sort." 

Floxham  eyed  him  keenly. 

"  Would  tha  tak'  owt  as  was  offert  thee  ?  "  he  demanded. 


"  NOT  FINISHED."  19 

«  I  think  I  would." 

"  Aw  reet,  then !  I'll  gie  thec  a  chance.  Coom  tha  wi' 
me  to  th'  engine-room,  an'  see  how  long  tha'lt  stick  to  it." 

It  was  very  ordinary  work  he  was  given  to  do,  but  he 
seemed  to  take  quite  kindly  to  it ;  in  fact,  the  manner  in 
which  he  applied  himself  to  the  rough  tasks  which  fell  to 
his  lot  gave  rise  to  no  slight  dissatisfaction  among  his 
fellow-workmen,  and  caused  him  to  be  regarded  with 
small  respect.  He  was  usually  a  little  ahead  of  the  stipu 
lated  time,  he  had  an  equable  temper,  and  yet  despite  this 
and  his  civility,  he  seemed  often  more  than  half  oblivious 
of  the  existence  of  those  around  him.  A  highly  flavored 
joke  did  not  awaken  him  to  enthusiasm,  and  perhaps 
chiefest  among  his  failings  was  noted  the  fact  that  he  had 
no  predilection  for  "  sixpenny,"  and  at  his  midday  meal, 
which  he  frequently  brought  with  him  and  ate  in  any 
convenient  corner,  he  sat  drinking  cold  water  and  eating 
his' simple  fare  over  a  book. 

"  Tli'  chap  is  na  more  than  haaf  theer,"  was  the  opinion 
generally  expressed. 

Since  the  night  of  his  return  from  his  journey,  Stephen 
Murdoch  had  been  out  no  more.  The  neighbors  watched 
for  him  in  vain.  The  wooden  case  stood  unopened  in  his 
room, — he  had  never  spoken  of  it.  Through  the  long 
hours  of  the  day  he  lay  upon  the  sofa,  either  dozing  or  in 
silent  wakef uliiess,  and  at  length  instead  of  upon  the  sofa 
he  lay  upon  the  bed,  not  having  strength  to  rise. 

About  three  months  after  he  had  taken  his  place  at 
Haworth's,  Hilary  came  home  one  evening  to  find  his 
mother  waiting  for  him  at  the  door.  She  shed  no  tears, 
there  was  in  her  face  only  a  hopeless  terror. 

"  fle  has  sent  me  out  of  the  room,"  she  said.  "  He  has 
been  restless  all  day.  He  said  he  must  be  alone." 


20  «  HA  WORTH'S." 

Hilary  went  upstairs.  Opening  the  door  he  fell  back 
a  step.  The  model  was  in  its  old  place  on  the  work-table 
and  near  it  stood  a  tall,  gaunt,  white  figure. 

His  father  turned  toward  him.  He  touched  himself 
upon  the  breast.  "  I  always  told  myself,"  he  said,  inco 
herently  arid  hoarsely,  "  that  there  was  a  flaw  in  it — that 
something  was  lacking.  I  have  said  that  for  thirty  years, 
and  believed  the  day  would  come  when  I  should  remedy 
the  wrong.  To-night  I  knoiv.  The  truth  has  come  to  me 
at  last.  There  was  no  remedy.  The  flaw  was  in  me," 
touching  his  hollow  chest, — "  in  me.  As  I  lay  there  1 
thought  once  that  perhaps  it  was  not  real — that  I  had 
dreamed  it  all  and  might  awake.  I  got  up  to  see — to 
touch  it.  It  is  there !  Good  God  !  "  as  if  a  sudden  terror 
grasped  him.  "  Not  finished  ! — and  I " 

He  fell  into  a  chair  and  sank  forward,  his  hand  falling 
upon  the  model  helplessly  and  unmeaningly. 

Hilary  raised  him  and  laid  his  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
He  heard  his  mother  at  the  door  and  cried  out  loudly  to 
her. 

"  Go  back !  "  he  said.      "  Go  back !     You  must  not 


CHAPTER  IV. 

JANEY     BRIARLEY. 

A  WEEK  later  Hilary  Murdoch  returned  from  the  Brox- 
t'jn  grave-yard  in  a  drizzling  rain,  and  made  his  way  to 
the  bare,  cleanly  swept  chamber  upstairs. 

Since  the  night  on  which  he  had  cried  out  to  his  mother 
that  she  must  not  enter,  the  table  at  which  the  dead  man 
had  been  wont  to  sit  at  work  had  been  pushed  aside. 
Some  one  had  thrown  a  white  cloth  over  it.  Murdoch 
went  to  it  and  drew  this  cloth  away.  He  stood  and 
looked  down  at  the  little  skeleton  of  wood  and  steel.  It 
had  been  nothing  but  a  curse  from  first  to  last,  and  yet  it 
fascinated  him.  He  found  it  hard  to  do  the  thing  he  had 
come  to  do. 

"  It  is  not  finished,"  he  said  to  the  echoes  of  the  empty 
room.  "  It — never  will  be." 

He  slowly  replaced  it  in  its  case,  and  buried  it  out  of 
sight  at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk  which,  from  that  day  for 
ward,  would  stand  unused  and  locked. 

When  he  arose,  after  doing  this,  he  unconsciously  struck 
his  hands  together  as  he  had  seen  grave-diggers  do  when 
they  brushed  the  damp  soil  away. 

The  first  time  Haworth  saw  his  new  hand  he  regarded 
him  with  small  favor.  In  crossing  the  yard  one  day 
at  noon,  he  came  upon  him  disposing  of  his  midday 


22  "HAWORTH'S" 

meal  and  reading  at  the  same  time.  He  stopped  to  look 
at  him. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  he  asked  one  of  the  men. 

The  fellow  grinned  in  amiable  appreciation  of  the  rough 
tone  of  the  query. 

"  That's  th'  'Merican,"  he  answered.  "  An '  a  soft  un 
he  is." 

"  What's  that  he's  reading  ?  " 

"Summat  about  engineering  loike  as  not.  That's  his 
crank." 

In  the  rush  of  his  new  plans  and  the  hurry  of  the  last 
few  months,  Haworth  had  had  time  to  forget  the  man 
who  had  wished  him  "  good  luck,"  and  whose  pathetic  fig 
ure  had  been  a  shadow  upon  the  first  glow  of  his  triumph. 
He  did  not  connect  him  at  all  with  the  young  fellow  be 
fore  him.  He  turned  away  with  a  shrug  of  his  burly 
shoulders. 

"  He  doesn't  look  like  an  Englishman,"  he  said.  "  He 
hasn't  got  backbone  enough." 

Afterward  when  the  two  accidentally  came  in  contact, 
Haworth  wasted  few  civil  words.  At  times  his  domineer 
ing  brusqueness  excited  Murdoch  to  wonder. 

"  He's  a  queer  fellow,  that  Haworth,"  he  said  reflect- 
iugly  to  Floxham.  "  Sometimes  1  think  he's  out  of  humor 
with  me." 

With  the  twelve-year-old  daughter  of  one  of  the  work 
men,  who  used  to  bring  her  father's  dinner,  the  young 
fellow  had  struck  up  something  of  a  friendship.  She  was 
the  eldest  of  twelve,  a  mature  young  person,  whose  busi 
ness-like  air  had  attracted  him. 

She  had  assisted  her  mother  in  the  rearing  of  her  fam 
ily  from  her  third  year,  and  had  apparently  done  with  the 


JANET  BRIARLEY.  23 

follies  of  youth.  She  was  stunted  with  much  nursing  and 
her  small  face  had  a  shrewd  and  careworn  look.  Mur 
doch's  h'rst  advances  she  received  with  some  distrust,  but 
after  a  lapse  of  time  they  progressed  fairly  and,  without 
any  weak  sentiment,  were  upon  excellent  terms. 

One  rainy  day  she  came  into  the  yard  enveloped  in  a 
large  shawl,  evidently  her  mother's,  and  also  evidently 
very  much  in  her  way.  Her  dinner-can,  her  beer-jug,  and 
her  shawl  were  more  than  she  could  manage. 

"  Eh  !  I  am  in  a  mess,"  she  said  to  Hilary,  stopping  at 
the  door-way  with  a  long-drawn  breath.  "  I  dunnot  know 
which  way  to  turn — what  wi'  th'  beer  and  what  wi'  th' 
dinner.  I've  getten  on  mother's  Sunday  shawl  as  she  had 
afore  she  wur  wed,  an'  th'  eends  keep  a-draggin'  an'  a- 
draggin',  an'  th'  mud'll  be  th'  ruin  on  em.  Th'  pin  mother 
put  in  is  na  big  enow,  an'  it's  getten  loose." 

There  was  perhaps  not  much  sense  of  humor  in  the 
young  man.  He  did  not  seem  to  see  the  grotesqueness  of 
the  little  figure  with  its  mud-bedraggled  maternal  wrap 
pings.  He  turned  up  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  examined 
it  quite  seriously. 

"  I've  got  a  pin  here  that  will  hold  it,"  he  said.  "  I 
picked  it  up  because  it  was  such  a  large  one." 

Janey  Briarley's  eyes  brightened. 

"Eh!"  she  ejaculated,  "that  theer's  a  graidely  big  un. 
Some  woman  mun  ha'  dropped  it  out  o'  her  shawl.  Wheer 
did  tha  f oind  it  \ " 

"  In  the  street." 

"  I  thowt  so.  Some  woman's  lost  it.  Dost  tha  think 
tha  con  pin  it  reet,  or  mun  I  put  th'  beer  down  an'  do  it 
my  sen  ? " 

He  thought  he  could  do  it  and  bent  down  to  reach  her 
level. 


24  ^  HA  WORTH'S." 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Ha  worth  approached  the 
door  with  the  intention  of  passing  out.  Things  had  gone 
wrong  with  him,  and  he  was  in  one  of  his  worst  moods. 
He  strode  down  the  passage  in  a  savage  hurry,  and,  find 
ing  his  way  barred,  made  no  effort  to  keep  his  temper. 

"  Get  out  of  the  road,"  he  said,  and  pushed  Murdoch 
aside  slightly  with  his  foot. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  dropped  a  spark  of  fire  into  gun 
powder.  Murdoch  sprang  to  his  feet,  white  with  wrath 
and  quivering. 

"  D n  you  !  "  he  shrieked.  "  D n  you !  I'll  kill 

you !  "  and  he  rushed  upon  him. 

As  he  sprang  upon  him,  Haworth  staggered  between 
the  shock  and  his  amazement.  A  sense  of  the  true  nature 
of  the  thing  he  had  done  broke  in  upon  him. 

When  it  was  all  over  he  fell  back  a  pace,  and  a  grim 
surprise,  not  without  its  hint  of  satisfaction,  was  in  his 
face. 

"  The  devil  take  you,"  he  said.  "  You  have  got  some 
blood  in  you,  after  all." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   BEGINNING   OF    A    FRIENDSHIP. 

THE  next  morning,  when  he  appeared  at  the  Works, 
Murdoch  found  he  had  to  make  his  way  through  a  group 
of  the  "hands"  which  some  sufficiently  powerful  motive 
had  gathered  together, — which  group  greeted  his  appear 
ance  with  signs  of  interest.  "  Theer  he  is,"  he  heard 
them  say.  And  then  a  gentleman  of  leisure,  who  was  an 
outsider  leaning  against  the  wall,  enjoying  the  solace  of  a 
short  pipe,  exerted  himself  to  look  round  and  add  his 
comment. 

"  Well,"  he  remarked,  "  he  may  ha'  done  it,  an'  I  wun- 
not  stick  out  as  he  did  na ;  but  if  it  wur  na  fur  the  cir- 
ciunstantshal  evidence  I  would  na  ha'  believed  it." 

Floxham  met  him  at  the  entrance  with  a  message. 

"  Haworth's  sent  fur  thee,"  he  said. 

"  Where  is  he  ? " — coolly  enough  under  the  circum 
stances. 

The  engineer  chuckled  in  sly  exultation. 

"  He's  in  the  office.  He  didna  say  nowt  about  givin' 
thee  th'  bag ;  but  tha  may  as  well  mak'  up  thy  moind  to 
it.  Tha  wert  pretty  cheeky,  tha  knows,  considerin'  he 
wur  th'  mester." 

"  Look  here,"  with  some  heat ;  "  do  you  mean  to  say 
you  think  I  was  in  the  wrong  ?  Am  I  to  let  the  fellow 
insult  me  and  not  resent  it — touch  me  with  his  foot,  as  if 
I  were  a  dog  ? " 


"  Tha'rt  particular,  my  lad,"  dryly.  "An'  tha  docs  na 
know  as  much  o'  th'  mester  koind  as  most  folk."  But  the 
next  instant  he  flung  down  the  tool  he  held  in  his  hand. 
"  Dom  thee ! "  he  cried.  "  1  loike  thy  pluck.  Stick  to  it, 
lad, — mesters  or  no  mesters." 

As  Murdoch  crossed  the  threshold  of  his  room,  Jem 
Jlaworth  turned  in  his  scat  and  greeted  him  with  a  short 
nod  not  altogether  combative.  Then  he  leaned  forward, 
with  his  arms  upon  the  table  before  him. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  I'd  like  to  take  a  look  at  the 
chap  who  thought  he  could  thrash  Jem  llaworth." 

I>ut  Murdoch  did  not  obey  him. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  something  to  say  to  me,"  he  said, 
"  as  yuu  sent  for  me." 

He  did  not  receive  the  answer  he  was  prepared  for. 
Jem  llaworth  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"  By  George!  you're  a  plucky  chap,"  he  said,  "  if  you 
are  an  American." 

Murdoch's  blood  rose  again. 

u  Say  what  you  have  to  say,"  he  demanded.  "  1  can 
guess  what  it  is;  but,  let  me  tell  you,  I  should  do  the 
same  thing  again.  It  was  no  fault  of  mine  that  I  was  in 
your  path " 

"  If  I'd  been  such  a  fool  as  not  to  see  that,"  put  in 
llaworth,  with  a  smile  grimmer  than  before,  "do  you 
think  I  couldn't  have  smashed  every  bone  in  your  body  ? " 

Then  Murdoch  comprehended  how  matters  were  to 
stand  between  them. 

"  Gotten  tli'  bag?  "  asked  Floxham  when  he  went  back 
'«i  his  work. 

"No." 

"  Tha  hannot  ?  "  with  animation.     "  Well,  dang  me  !  " 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  as  they  were  preparing  to  leave 


THE  BEGINNING   OF  A  FRIENDSHIP.  27 

their  work,  Haworth  presented  himself  in  the  engine- 
room,  looking  perhaps  a  trifle  awkward. 

"  See  here,"  he  said  to  Murdoch,  "  I've  heard  something 
to-day  as  I've  missed  hearing  before,  somehow.  The  in 
venting  chap  was  your  father  3  " 

«  Yes." 

He  stood  in  an  uneasy  attitude,  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow  as  if  he  half  expected  to  see  the  frail,  tall  figure 
again. 

"  I  saw  him  once,  poor  chap,"  he  said,  "  and  he  stuck  to 
me,  somehow.  I'd  meant  to  stand  by  him  if  he'd  come 
here.  I'd  have  liked  to  do  him  a  good  turn." 

He  turned  to  Murdoch  suddenly  and  with  a  hint  of  em 
barrassment  in  his  off-hand  air. 

"  Come  up  and  have  dinner  with  me,"  he  said.  "  It's 
devilish  dull  spending  a  chap's  nights  in  a  big  place  like 
mine.  Come  up  with  me  now." 

The  visit  was  scarcely  to  Murdoch's  taste,  but  it  was 
easier  to  accept  than  to  refuse.  lie  had  seen  the  house 
often,  and  had  felt  some  slight  curiosity  as  to  its  inside 
appearance. 

There  was  only  one  other  house  in  Broxton  which  ap 
proached  it  in  size  and  splendor,  and  this  stood  empty  at 
present,  its  owner  being  abroad.  Broxton  itself  was  a 
sharp  and  dingy  little  town,  whose  inhabitants  were 
mostly  foundry  hands.  It  had  grown  up  around  the 
Works  and  increased  with  them.  It  had  a  small  railway 
station,  two  or  three  public  houses  much  patronized,  and 
wore,  somehow,  an  air  of  being  utterly  unconnected  with 
the  outside  world  which  much  belied  it.  Motives  of  util 
ity,  a  desire  to  be  on  the  spot,  and  a  general  disregard  for 
un-business-like  attractions  had  led  Haworth  to  build  his 
house  011  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 


28  «  HA  WOfiTff>&» 

"When  I  want  a  spree,"  he  had  said,  "I  can  go  to 
Man  Chester  or  London,  and  I'm  not  particular  about  the 
rest  on  it.  I  want  to  be  nigh  the  place." 

It  was  a  big  house  and  a  handsome  one.  It  was  one  of 
the  expressions  of  the  man's  success,  and  his  pride  was  in 
volved  in  it.  He  spent  money  on  it  lavishly,  and,  having 
completed  it,  went  to  live  a  desolate  life  among  its  gran 
deurs. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  villages,  which  were 
simple  and  agricultural,  regarded  Broxton  with  frank  dis 
taste,  and  "  Haworth's "  with  horror.  Haworth's  smoke 
polluted  their  atmosphere.  Haworth's  hands  made  weekly 
raids  upon  their  towns  and  rendered  themselves  obnoxious 
in  their  streets.  The  owner  of  the  Works,  his  mode  of 
life,  his  defiance  of  opinion,  and  his  coarse  sins,  were  sup 
posed  to  be  tabooed  subjects.  The  man  was  ignored,  and 
left  to  his  visitors  from  the  larger  towns, — visitors  who 
occasionally  presented  themselves  to  be  entertained  at  his 
house  in  a  fashion  of  his  own,  and  who  were  a  greater 
scandal  than  all  the  rest. 

"  They  hate  me,"  said  Ha  worth  to  his  visitor,  as  they  sat 
down  to  dinner;  "they  hate  me,  the  devil  take  'em.  I'm 
not  moral  enough  for  'em — not  moral  enough  ! "  with  a 
shout  of  laughter. 

There  was  something  unreal  to  his  companion  in  the 
splendor  with  which  the  great  fellow  was  surrounded 
The  table  was  covered  with  a  kind  of  banquet ;  servants 
moved  about  noiselessly  as  he  talked  and  laughed ;    the 
appointments  of  the  room  were  rich  and  in  good  taste. 

"  Oh !  it's  none  of  my  work,"  he  said,  seeing  Murdoch 
glance  about  him.  "I  wasn't  fool  enough  to  try  to  do  it 
myslef.  I  gave  it  into  the  hands  of  them  as  knew  how." 

He  was  loud-tongued  and  boastful ;  but  he  showed  good- 


THE  BEGINNING    OF  A   FRIENDSHIP. 

nature  enough  and  a  rough  wit,  and  it  was  also  plain  that 
lie  knew  his  own  strength  and  weaknesses. 

"  Thirty  year'  your  father  was  at  work  on  that  notion  of 
his  ? "  he  said  once  during  the  evening. 

Murdoch  made  an  uneasy  gesture  of  assent. 

"  And  it  never  came  to  aught  ? " 

«  No." 

"He  died." 

"  Yes." 

He  thrust  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  and  gave  the 
young  fellow  a  keen  look. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  the  thing  up  yourself  ?  "  he  said. 
"  There  may  be  something  in  it,  after  all,  and  you're  a 
long-headed  chap." 

Murdoch  started  from  his  chair.  He  took  an  excited 
turn  across  the  room  before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing. 

"  1  never  will,"  he  said,  "  so  help  me  God !  The  thing's 
done  with  and  shut  out  of  the  world." 

When  he  went  away,  Ilaworth  accompanied  him  to  the 
door.  At  the  threshold  he  turned  about. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  look  of  things  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  should  be  hard  to  please  if  I  did  not  like  the  look  of 
them,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Well,  then,  come  again.  You're  welcome.  I  have  it 
all  to  myself.  I'm  not  favorite  enow  with  the  gentry  to 
bring  any  on  'em  here.  You're  free  to  come  wheii  th'  fit 
takes  you." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MISS   FFRENCH. 

IT  was  considered,  after  this,  a  circumstance  illustrative 
of  Haworth's  peculiarities  that  he  had  taken  to  himself  a 
protege  from  among  the  "  hands  ; "  that  said  protege  was 
an  eccentric  young  fellow  who  was  sometimes  spoken  of 
as  being  scarcely  as  bright  as  he  should  be  ;  that  he  occa 
sionally  dined  or  supped  with  Haworth  ;  that  he  spent 
numberless  evenings  with  him,  and  that  he  read  his  books, 
which  would  not  have  been  much  used  otherwise. 

Murdoch  lived  his  regular,  unemotional  life,  in  happy 
ignorance  of  these  rumors.  It  was  true  that  he  gradually 
fell  into  the  habit  of  going  to  Haworth's  house,  and  also 
of  reading  his  books.  Indeed,  if  the  truth  were  told,  these 
had  been  his  attraction. 

"I've  no  use  for  'em,"  said  Haworth,  candidly,  on 
showing  him  his  library.  "  Get  into  'em,  if  you've  a  fancy 
for  'em." 

His  fancy  for  them  was  strong  enough  to  bring  him  to 
the  place  again  and  again.  He  found  books  he  had 
wanted,  but  never  hoped  to  possess.  The  library,  it  may 
be  admitted,  was  not  of  Jem  Haworth's  selection,  and,  in 
deed,  this  gentleman's  fancy  for  his  new  acquaintance 
was  not  a  little  increased  by  a  shrewd  admiration  for  an 
intellectual  aptness  which  might  be  turned  to  practical 
account. 


MISS  FFRENCH.  31 

"  You  tackle  'em  as  if  you  were  used  to  'em,"  he  used 
to  say.  "  I'd  give  something  solid  myself  if  I  could  do 
the  same.  There's  what's  against  me  many  a  time- 
knowing  naught  of  books,  and  having  to  tight  my  way 
rough  and  ready." 

From  the  outset  of  this  acquaintance,  Murdoch's  posi 
tion  at  the  Works  had  been  an  easier  one.  It  became 
understood  that  Haworth  would  stand  by  him,  and  that 
he  must  be  treated  with  a  certain  degree  of  respect. 
Greater  latitude  was  given  him,  and  better  pay,  and 
though  he  remained  in  the  engine-room,  other  and  more 
responsible  work  frequently  fell  into  his  hands. 

He  went  on  in  the  even  tenor  of  his  way,  uncommuni 
cative  and  odd  as  ever.  He  still  presented  himself  ahead 
of  time,  and  labored  with  the  unnecessary,  absorbed 
ardor  of  an  enthusiast,  greatly  to  the  distaste  of  those  less 
zealous. 

"  Tha  gets  into  it  as  if  tha  wur  doin'  fur  thysen,"  said 
one  of  these.  "  Happen  " — feeling  the  sarcasm  a  strong 
one — "  happen  tha'rt  fond  on  it  ? " 

"  Oh  yes," — unconsciously — "  that's  it,  I  suppose.  I'm 
fond  of  it." 

The  scoffer  bestowed  upon  him  one  thunderstruck 
glance,  opened  his  mouth,  shut  it,  and  retired  in  disgust. 

"  Theer's  a  chap,"  he  said,  jerking  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder,  on  returning  to  his  companions,  "  theer's  a  chap 
as  says  he's  fond  o'  work — fond  on  it ! "  with  dramatic 
scorn.  "  Blast  his  eyes  !  Fond  on  it !  " 

With  Floxharn  he  had  always  stood  well,  though  even 
Floxham's  regard  was  tempered  with  a  slight  private  con 
tempt  for  peculiarities  not  easily  tolerated  by  the  practi 
cal  mind. 

"  Th'  chap's  getten  gumption  enow,  i'  his  way,"  he  said 


32  "HAWORTITS" 

to  Haworth.  "  If  owt  breaks  down  or  gets  out  oj  gear, 
lie's  aw  theer ;  but  theer  is  na  a  lad  on  th'  place  as  could 
na  cheat  him  out  o'  his  eye-teeth." 

His  reputation  for  being  a  "  queer  chap  "  was  greatly 
increased  by  the  simplicity  arid  seclusion  of  his  life.  The 
house  in  which  he  lived  with  his  mother  had  the  atmos 
phere  of  a  monastic  cell.  As  she  had  devoted  herself  to 
her  husband,  the  woman  devoted  herself  to  her  son, 
watching  him  with  a  hungry  eye.  He  was  given  to  tak 
ing  long  stretches  of  walks,  and  appearing  in  distant  vil 
lages,  book  in  hand,  and  with  apparently  no  ulterior 
object  in  view.  His  holidays  were  nearly  all  spent  out- 
of -doors  in  such  rambles  as  these.  The  country  people 
began  to  know  his  tall  figure  and  long  stride,  and  to 
regard  him  with  the  friendly  toleration  of  strength  for 
weakness. 

"  They  say  i'  Broxton,"  it  was  said  among  them,  "  as 
his  feyther  deed  daft,  and  it's  no  wonder  th'  young  chap's 
getten  queer  ways.  He's  good-natured  enow,  though  i'  a 
simple  road." 

His  good-nature  manifested  itself  in  more  than  one  way 
which  called  forth  comment.  To  his  early  friendship  for 
Janey  he  remained  faithful.  The  child  interested  him, 
and  the  sentiment  developed  as  it  grew  older. 

It  was  quite  natural  that,  after  a  few  months'  acquain 
tance,  he  should  drop  in  at  the  household  of  her  parents 
on  Saturday  afternoon,  as  he  was  passing.  It  was  the 
week's  half-holiday  arid  a  fine  day,  and  he  had  nothing 
else  to  do.  These  facts,  in  connection  with  that  of  the 
Briarley's  cottage  presenting  itself,  were  reasons  enough 
for  going  in. 

It  occurred  to  him,  as  he  entered  the  narrow  strip  of 
garden  before  the  door,  that  the  children  of  the  neighbor- 


MISS  FFRENGII.  33 

hood  must  have  congregated  to  hold  high  carnival. 
Groups  made  dirt-pies ;  clusters  played  "  bobber  and 
kibbs ; "  select  parties  settled  differences  of  opinions 
with  warmth  of  feeling  and  elevation  of  voice ;  a  youth 
of  tender  years,  in  corduroys  which  shone  with  friction, 
stood  upon  his  head  in  one  corner,  calmly  but  not  haugh 
tily  presenting  to  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  a  pair  of  pon 
derous,  brass-finished  clogs. 

"  What  dost  want  ? "  he  demanded,  without  altering  his 
position.  "  TV  missus  isn't  in." 

"  I'm  going  in  to  see  Janey,"  explained  Murdoch. 

He  found  the  little  kitchen  shining  with  the  Saturday 
"  cleaning  up."  The  flagged  floor  as  glaringly  spotless 
as  pipe-clay  and  sandstone  could  make  it,  the  brass  oven- 
handles  and  tin  pans  in  a  condition  to  put  an  intruder 
out  of  countenance,  the  tire  replenished,  and  Janey  sitting 
on  a  stool  on  the  hearth  enveloped  in  an  apron  of  her 
mother's,  and  reading  laboriously  aloud. 

"Eh  !  dear  me  !  "  she  exclaimed.  " It's  yo' — an'  I  am 
na  fit  to  be  seen.  I  wur  settin'  down  to  rest  a  bit.  I've 
been  doin'  th'  cleanin'  aw  day,  an'  I  wur  real  done 
fur." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  said  Murdoch.  "  That's  all  right 
enough." 

He  cast  about  him  for  a  safe  position  to  take — one  in 
which  he  could  stretch  his  legs  and  avoid  damaging  the 
embarrassing  purity  of  the  floor.  Finally  he  settled  upon 
a  small  print-covered  sofa  and  balanced  himself  carefully 
upon  its  extreme  edge  and  the  backs  of  his  heels,  notwith 
standing  Janey's  civil  protestations. 

"  Dunnot  yo'  moind  th'  floor,"  she  said.  "  Yo'  needn't. 
Set  yo'  down  comfortable." 

"  Oh;  I'm  all  right,"  answered  Murdoch,  with  calm  good 
2* 


34  "HAWORT&8." 

cheer..  "  This  is  comfortable  enough.  What's  that  you 
were  reading  ?  " 

Janey  settled  down  upon  her  stool  with  a  sigh  at  once 
significant  of  relief  and  a  readiness  to  indulge  in  friendly 
confidence. 

"  It's  a  book  I  getten  fro'  th'  Broxton  Chapel  Sunday 
Skoo'.  Its  th'  Mem — m-e-m-o-i-r-s " 

"  Memoirs,"  responded  Murdoch. 

"  Memoyers  of  Mary  Ann  Gibbs." 

Unfortunately  her  visitor  was  not  thoroughly  posted  on 
the  subject  of  the  Broxton  Chapel  literature.  He  cast 
about  him  mentally,  but  with  small  success. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  have  heard  of  it  before,"  was  the  con 
clusion  he  arrived  at. 

"  Hannot  yo'  ?  Well,  it's  a  noice  book,  an'  theer's  lots 
more  like  it  in  th'  skoo'  libery — aw  about  Sunday  skoo' 
scholars  as  has  consumption  an'  th'  loike  an'  reads  th' 
boible  to  foalk  an'  dees.  They  aw  on  'em  dee." 

"  Oh,"  doubtfully,  but  still  with  respect.  "  It's  not  very 
cheerful,  is  it  ?  " 

Janey  shook  her  head  with  an  expression  of  mature 
resignation. 

"  Eh  no !  they're  none  on  'em  cheerful — but  they're 
noice  to  read.  This  here  un  now — she  had  th'  asthma  an' 
sumrnat  wrong  wi'  her  legs,  an'  she  knowed  aw'  th'  boible 
through  aside  o'  th'  hymn-book,  an'  she'd  sing  aw  th'  toime 
when  she  could  breathe  fur  th'  asthma,  an'  tell  foak  as  if 
they  did  na  go  an'  do  likewise  they'd  go  to  burnin'  hell 
wheer  th'  fire  is  na  quenched  an'  th'  worms  dyeth 
not." 

"  It  can't  have  been  very  pleasant  for  the  friends,"  was 
her  companion's  comment.  But  there  was  nothing  jocose 
about  his  manner.  He  was  balancing  himself  seriously 


MISS  FFRENCH.  35 

on  the  edge  of  the  hard  little  sofa  and  regarding  her  with 
speculative  interest. 

"  Where's  your  mother  ? "  he  asked  next. 

"  Hoo's  gone  to  th'  chapel,"  was  the  answer.  "  Theer's 
a  mothers'  meetin'  in  th'  vestry,  an'  hoo's  gone  theer  an' 
takken  th'  babby  wi'  her.  Th'  rest  o'  th'  childer  is  playin' 
out  at  th9  front." 

He  glanced  out  of  the  door. 

"  Those — those  are  not  all  yours  ? "  he  said,  thunder 
struck. 

u  Aye,  they  are — that.  Eh  !  "  drawing  a  long  breath, 
"  but  is  na  there  a  lot  on  'em  ?  Theer's  eleven  an'  I've 
missed  'em  nigh  ivvery  one." 

He  turned  toward  the  door  again. 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  great  many  of  them,"  he  remarked. 
"  You  must  have  had  a  great  deal  to  do." 

"  That  I  ha'.  I've  wished  mony  a  time  I'd  been  a  rich 
lady.  Theer's  that  daughter  o'  Pf  rench's  now.  Eh !  I'd 
like  to  ha'  bin  her." 

"  I  never  heard  of  her  before,"  he  answered.  "  Who  is 
she,  and  why  do  you  choose  her  ?  " 

"  Cos  she's  so  harisum.  She's  that  theer  grand  she  looks 
loike  she  thowt  ivvery  body  else  wur  dirt.  I've  seen 
women  as  wur  bigger,  an'  wore  more  cloas  at  onct,  but  I 
nivver  seed  none  as  grand  as  she  is.  I  nivver  seed  her 
but  onct.  She  coom  here  wi'  her  feyther  fer  two  or  three 
week'  afore  he  went  to  furrin  parts,  an'  she  wur  caught  i' 
th'  rain  one  day  an'  stopped  in  here  a  bit.  She  dropped 
her  hankcher  an'  mother's  getten  it  yet.  It's  nigh  aw  lace. 
Would  yo'  loike  to  see  it  ? "  hospitably. 

"  Yes,"  feeling  his  lack  of  enthusiasm  something  of  a 
fault.  "  I— dare  say  I  should." 

From  the  depths  of  a  drawer  which  she  opened  with  a 


36  "HAWORTff'JS." 

vigorous  effort  and  some  skill  in  retaining  her  balance,  she 
produced  something  pinned  up  in  a  fragment  of  old  linen. 
This  she  bore  to  her  guest  and  unpinning  it,  displayed 
;he  handkerchief. 

"  Tha  can  tak'  it  in  thy  hond  an'  smell  it,"  she  said  gra^ 
ciously.  "  It's  getten  scent  on  it." 

Murdoch  took  it  in  his  hand,  scarcely  knowing  what 
else  to  do.  He  knew  nothing  of  women  and  their  finery. 
He  regarded  the  fragrant  bit  of  lace  and  cambric  seri 
ously,  and  read  in  one  corner  the  name  "  Hachel  Ff  rench," 
written  in  delicate  letters.  Then  he  returned  it  to  Janey. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  it  is  very  nice." 

Janey  bore  it  back  perhaps  with  some  slight  inward 
misgivings  as  to  the  warmth  of  its  reception,  but  also  with 
a  tempering  recollection  of  the  ways  of  "  men-foak." 
When  she  came  back  to  her  stool,  she  changed  the  sub- 
ject. 

"  We've  bin  havin'  trouble  lately,"  she  said.  "  Eh  ! 
but  I've  seed  a  lot  o'  trouble  i'  my  day." 

"  What  is  the  trouble  now  ?  "  Murdoch  asked. 

"  Feyther.  It's  all  us  him.  He's  getten  in  wi'  a  bad 
lot  an'  he's  drinkin'  agen.  Seems  loike  neyther  mother 
nor  me  con  keep  him  straight  far  aw  we  told  him 
Ilaworth'll  turn  him  off.  Haworth's  not  goin'  to  stand 
his  drink  an'  th'  lot  he  goes  wi'.  I  would  na  stand  it 
myseii." 

"  What  lot  does  he  go  with  ?  " 

"  Eh  !  "  impatiently,  "  a  lot  o'  foo's  as  stands  round  th' 

publics  an'  grumbles  at  th'  mesters  an'  th'  wages  they  get. 

An'  feyther's  one  o'  these  soft  uns  as  believes  aw  they 

hears  an'  has  na'  getten  gumption  to  think  fur  his  sen. 

/  I've  looked  after  him  ivver  sin'  I  wur  three." 

/       She  became  even  garrulous  in  her  lack  of  patience,  and 


MISS  FFRENCH.  37 

was  in  full  flow  when  her  mother  entered  returning  from 
the  chapel,  with  a  fagged  face,  and  a  large  baby  on  her 
hip. 

"  Here,  tak'  him,  Jane  Ann,"  she  said ;  "  but  tak'  off 
thy  apron  furst,  or  tha'lt  tumble  ower  it  an'  dirty  his 
clean  bishop  wi'  th'  muck  tha's  getten  on  it.  Eh!  I  am 
tired.  Who's  this  here  ?  "  signifying  Murdoch. 

"  It's  Mester  Murdoch,"  said  Janey,  dropping  the 
apron  and  taking  the  child,  who  made  her  look  top-heavy. 
"  Sit  thee  down,  mother.  Yo'  needn't  moind  him.  He's 
a  workin'  mon  liissen." 

When  Murdoch  took  his  departure,  both  accompanied 
him  to  the  door. 

"  Coom  in  sometime  when  th'  mester's  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Briarley.  "  Happen  yo1  could  keep  him  in  a  neet  an'  that 
ud  be  summat. " 

Half  way  up  the  lane  he  met  Haworth  in  his  gig, 
whicli  he  stopped. 

"  Wlieer  hast  tha  been  ?  "  he  asked,  dropping  into  dia 
lect,  as  he  was  prone  to  do. 

"  To  Briarley's  cottage,  talking  to  the  little  girl." 

Haworth  stared  at  him  a  moment,  and  then  burst  into 
a  laugh. 

"  Tha'rt  a  queer  chap,"  he  said.  "  I  can  no  more  than 
half  make  thee  out.  If  thy  head  was  not  so  level,  I  should 
think  tha  wert  a  bit  soft." 

" 1  don't  see  why,"  answered  Murdoch,  undisturbed. 
"The  child  interests  me.  I  am  not  a  Lancashire  man, 
remember,  and  she  is  a  new  species." 

"  Get  in,"  said  Haworth,  making  room  for  him  on  the 
seat. 

Murdoch  got  in,  and  as  they  drove  on  it  occurred  to 
him  to  ask  a  question. 


38  "HAWORTITS." 

"Who'sFfrench?" 

"Ffrench?"  said  Haworth.  "Oh,  Ffrench  is  one  o' 
th'  nobs  here.  He's  a  chap  with  a  fancy  for  being  a  gen 
tleman-manufacturer.  He's  spent  his  brass  on  his  notions, 
until  he  has  been  obliged  to  draw  in  his  horns  a  bit. 
He's  never  lived  much  in  Broxton,  though  he's  got  a 
pretty  big  place  here.  The  Continent's  the  style  for 
him,  but  he'll  turn  up  here  again  some  day  when  he's 
hard  up  enow.  There's  his  place  now." 

And  as  he  spoke  they  drove  sharply  by  a  house  stand 
ing  closed  among  the  trees  and  having  an  air  of  desolate 
ness,  in  spite  of  the  sun- light. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  "WHO'D  HA'  THOWT  IT?" 

"  IT'S  th'  queerest  thing  i'  th'  world,"  said  Mrs.  Briar- 
ley  to  her  neighbors,  in  speaking  of  her  visitor, — "  it's  th1 
queerest  thing  i'  th'  world  as  he  should  be  a  workin'  mon. 
I  should  ha'  thowt  he'd  ha'  wanted  to  get  behind  th' 
counter  i'  a  draper's  shop  or  summat  genteel.  He'd  be  a 
well-lookin'  young  chap  i'  a  shiny  cloth  coat  an'  wi'  a 
blue  neck-tie  on.  Seems  loike  he  does  na  think  enow  o' 
hissen.  He'll  coom  to  our  house  an'  set  down  an'  listen 
to  our  Janey  talkin',  an'  tell  her  things  out  o'  books,  as 
simple  as  if  he  thowt  it  wur  nowt  but  what  ony  chap  could 
do.  Theer's  wheer  he's  a  bit  soft.  He  knows  nowt  o' 
settin'  hissen  up." 

From  Mrs.  Briarley  Murdoch  heard  numberless  stories 
of  Haworth,  presenting  him  in  a  somewhat  startling 
light. 

"  Eh !  but  he's  a  rare  un,  is  Haworth,"  said  the  good 
woman.  "  He  does  na  care  fur  mon  nor  devil.  The  car 
ry  in's  on  as  he  has  up  at  th'  big  house  ud  mak'  a  decent 
body's  hair  stond  o'  eend.  Afore  he  built  th'  house,  he 
used  to  go  to  Lunnon  an'  Manchester  fur  his  sprees,  but 
he  has  'em  here  now,  an'  theer's  drink  an'  riotin'  an' 
finery  and  foak  as  owt  to  be  shaint  o'  theirsens.  I  won 
der  he  is  na  feart  to  stay  on  th'  place  alone  after  they're 
gone*" 


40  "HAWORTJT&" 

But  for  one  reason  or  another  the  house  was  quiet 
enough  for  the  first  six  months  of  Murdoch's  acquain 
tance  with  its  master.  Ilaworth  gave  himself  up  to  the 
management  of  the  Works.  He  perfected  plans  he  had 
laid  at  a  time  when  the  power  had  not  been  in  his  own 
hands.  He  kept  his  eye  on  his  own  interests  sharply. 
The  most  confirmed  shirkers  on  the  place  found  them 
selves  obliged  to  fall  to  work,  however  reluctantly.  His 
bold  strokes  of  business  enterprise  began  to  give  him 
wide  reputation.  In  the  lapse  of  its  first  half  year, 
"  Ha  worth's  "  gained  for  itself  a  name. 

At  the  end  of  this  time,  Murdoch  arrived  at  the  Works 
one  morning  to  find  a  general  tone  of  conviviality  reign 
ing.  A  devil-may-care  air  showed  itself  among  all  the 
graceless.  There  was  a  hint  of  demoralization  in  the  very 
atmosphere. 

u  Where's  Ilaworth  ? "  he  asked  Floxham,  who  did  not 
seem  to  share  the  general  hilarity.  "  I've  not  seen  him." 

"  No,"  was  the  engineer's  answer,  "  nor  tha  will  na  see 
him  yet  a  bit.  A  lot  o'  foo's  coom  fro'  Lunnon  last  neet. 
He's  on  one  o'  his  sprees,  an'  a  nice  doment  they'll  ha'  on 
it  afore  they're  done." 

The  next  morning  Ilaworth  dashed  down  to  the  Works 
early  in  his  gig,  and  spent  a  short  time  in  his  room.  Be 
fore  he  left  he  went  to  the  engine-room,  and  spoke  to 
Murdoch. 

"  Is  there  aught  you  want  from  the  house — aught  in  the 
way  o'  books,  I  mean?"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  rough 
bravado  in  his  manner. 

"  No,"  Murdoch  answered. 

"  All  right,"  he  returned.  u  Then  keep  away,  lad,  for 
a  day  or  two." 

During  the  "  day  or  two,"  Broxton  existed  in  a  state  of 


TEE  "WHO'D  HA1   THOWT  IT?"  41 

ferment.  Gradually  an  air  of  disreputable  festivity  began 
to  manifest  itself  among  all  those  whose  virtue  was  as 
sailable.  There  were  open  "  sprees "  among  these,  and 
their  wives,  with  the  inevitable  baby  in  their  arms,  stood 
upon  their  door-steps  bewailing  their  fate,  and  retailing 
gossip  with  no  slight  zest. 

"  Silks  an'  satins,  bless  yo',"  they  said.  "  An'  paint  an' 
feathers ;  th'  brazent  things,  I  wonder  they  are  na  shamt 
to  show  their  faces !  A  noice  mester  Haworth  is  to  ha' 
men  under  him ! " 

Having  occasion  to  go  out  late  one  evening,  Murdoch 
encountered  Janey,  clad  in  the  big  bonnet  and  shawl, 
and  hurrying  along  the  street. 

"  Wheer  am  I  goin'  ? "  she  echoed  sharply  in  reply  to 
his  query.  "  Why,  I'm  goin'  round  to  th'  publics  to  look 
fur  feyther — theer's  wheer  I'm  goin'.  I  hannot  seed  him 
sin'  dayleet  this  mornin',  an'  he's  getten  th'  rent  an'  th' 
buryin'-club  money  wi'  him." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Murdoch. 

He  went  with  her,  making  the  round  of  half  the  public- 
houses  in  the  village,  finally  ending  at  a  jovial  establish 
ment  bearing  upon  its  whitened  window  the  ambiguous 
title  "  WHO'D  HA'  THOWT  IT  ? " 

There  was  a  sound  of  argument  accompanied  by  a  fid 
dle,  and  an  odor  of  beer  supplemented  by  tobacco.  Janey 
pushed  open  the  door  and  made  her  way  in,  followed  by 
her  companion. 

An  uncleanly,  and  loud-voiced  fellow  stood  unsteadily 
at  a  table,  flourishing  a  clay  pipe  and  making  a  speech. 

"  Th'  workin'  mon,"  he  said.  "  Theer's  too  much  talk 
o'  th'  workin'  mon.  Is  na  it  bad  enow  to  be  a  workin' 
mon,  wi'out  havin'  th'  gentry  remindin'  yo'  on  it  fro'  year 
eend  to  year  eend  ?  Le's  ha'  less  jaw- work  an'  more  paw- 


42  "HAWOHTH'S." 

work  fro'  th'  gentry.  Le's  ha'  fewer  liberys  an'  athyne* 
inns,  an'  more  wage — an'  holidays — an' — an'  beer.  Le'a 
pro-gre$s> — tha's  wha'  I  say — an'  I'm  a  workin'  mon." 

"  Ee-er !     Ee-er ! "  cried  the  chorus.     "  Ee  er ! " 

In  the  midst  of  the  pause  following  these  acclamations, 
a  voice  broke  in  suddenly  with  startling  loudness. 

"  Ee-er  !     Ee-er !  "  it  said. 

It  was  Mr.  Briarley,  who  had  unexpectedly  awakened 
from  a  beery  nap,  and,  though  much  surprised  to  find  out 
where  lie  was,  felt  called  upon  to  express  his  approba 
tion. 

Janey  hitched  her  shawl  into  a  manageable  length  and 
approached  him. 

"  Tha'rt  here  ?"  she  said.  "I  knowed  tha  would  be. 
Tha'lt  worrit  th'  loife  out  on  us  afore  tha'rt  done.  Coom 
on  home  wi'  me  afore  tha'st  spent  ivvery  ha'penny  we've 
getten." 

Mr.  Briarley  roused  himself  so  far  as  to  smile  at  her 
blandly. 

"  It's  Zhaney,"  he  said,  "  it's  Zhaney.  Don'  intrup  th' 
meetin',  Zhaney.  I'll  be  home  dreckly.  Mus'  na  intrup 
th'  workin'  mon.  He's  th'  backbone  V  sinoo  o'  th'  coun 
try.  Le's  ha'  a  sup  more  beer.' ' 

Murdoch  bent  over  and  touched  his  shoulder. 

(<  You  had  better  come  home,"  he  said. 

The  man  looked  round  at  him  blankly,  but  the  next 
moment  an  exaggerated  expression  of  enlightenment 
showed  itself  on  his  face. 

"  Iss  th'  'Merican,"  he  said.  "  Iss  Murdoch."  And 
then,  with  sudden  bibulous  delight :  "  Gi'  us  a  speech 
'bout  'Merica." 

In  a  moment  there  was  a  clamor  all  over  the  room. 
The  last  words  had  been  spoken  loudly  enough  to  be 


THE  "  WHO'D  HA'    THOW1  IT?"  43 

heard,  and  the  idea  presented  itself  to  the  members  of 
the  assembly  as  a  happy  one. 

"  Aye,"  they  cried.  "  Le's  ha'  a  speecli  fro'  th'  'Meri- 
can.  Le's  hear  sumrnat  fro'  'Merica.  Theer's  wheer  th' 
laborin'  mon  has  his  dues." 

Murdoch  turned  about  and  faced  the  company. 

"  You  all  know  enough  of  me  to  know  whether  I  am  a 
speech-making  man  or  not,"  he  said.  "  I  have  nothing  to 
say  about  America,  and  if  I  had  I  should  not  say  it  here. 
You  are  not  doing  yourselves  any  good.  The  least  fellow 
among  you  has  brains  enough  to  tell  him  that." 

There  was  at  once  a  new  clamor,  this  time  ono  of  dissa 
tisfaction.  The  speech-maker  with  the  long  clay,  who 
was  plainly  the  leader,  expressed  himself  with  heat  and 
scorn. 

"  He's  a  noice  chap — he  is,"  he  cried.  "  He'll  ha'  nowt 
to  do  wi'  us.  He's  th'  soart  o'  workin'  mon  to  ha'  abowt, 
to  play  th'  pianny  an'  do  paintin'  i'  velvet.  'Merica  be 
danged !  He's  more  o'  th'  gentry  koind  to-day  than 
Ilaworth.  Haworth  does  tak'  a  decent  spree  now  an' 

then ;  but  this  heer  un Ax  him  to  tak'  a  glass  o'  beer 

an'  see  what  he'll  say." 

Disgust  was  written  upon  every  countenance,  but  no 
one  proffered  the  hospitality  mentioned.  Mr.  Briarley  had 
fallen  asleep  again,  murmuring  suggestively,  "Aye,  le's 
hear  summat  fro'  'Merica.  Le's  go  to  'Merica.  Pu-r  on 
thy  bonnet,  lass,  pur — it  on." 

With  her  companion's  assistance,  Janey  got  him  out  of 
the  place  and  led  him  home. 

"  Ilaaf  th'  rent's  gone,"  she  said,  when  she  turned  out 
his  pockets,  as  he  sat  by  the  fire.  "  An'  wheer's  th'  bury- 
in'  money  to  coom  fro'  ? " 

Mr.  Briarley  shook  his  head  mournfully. 


44  "HAWORT&S." 

"  Th'  buryin'  money,"  he  said.  "  Aye,  i'deed.  A  noice 
thing  it  is  fur  a  poor  chap  to  ha'  to  cut  off  his  beer  to  pay 
fur  his  coffin  by  th'  week, — wastin'  good  brass  on  sumrnat 
lie  may  nivver  need  as  long  as  he  lives.  I  dunnot  loike 
th'  thowt  on  it,  eyther.  It's  bad  enow  to  ha'  to  get  into 
th'  thing  at  th'  eend,  wi'out  ha'in'  it  lugged  up  to  th'  door 
ivvery  Saturday,  an'  payin'  fur  th'  ornymentin'  on  it  by 
inches." 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

MB.    FFRENCH. 

IT  was  a  week  before  affairs  assumed  their  accustomed 
aspect.  Not  that  the  Works  had  been  neglected,  however. 
Each  morning  Haworth  had  driven  down  early  and  spent 
an  hour  in  his  office  and  about  the  place,  reading  letters, 
issuing  orders  and  keeping  a  keen  look-out  generally. 

"  I'll  have  no  spreeing  here  among  you  chaps,"  he  an 
nounced.  "  Spree  as  much  as  you  like  when  th'  work's 
done,  but  you  don't  spree  in  my  time.  Look  sharp  after 
'em,  Kendal." 

The  day  after  his  guests  left  him  he  appeared  at  his 
usual  time,  and  sent  at  once  for  Murdoch. 

On  his  arriving  he  greeted  him,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets. 

«  Well,  lad,"  he  said,  "  it's  over." 

Almost  unconsciously,  Murdoch  thrust  his  hands  into 
his  pockets  also,  but  the  action  had  rather  a  reflective  than 
a  defiant  expression. 

"  It's  lasted  a  pretty  long  time,  hasn't  it  ? "  he  re 
marked. 

Haworth  answered  him  with  a  laugh. 

"  Egad !     You  take  it  cool  enough,"  he  said. 

Suddenly  he  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about,  his  air  a 
mixture  of  excitement  and  braggadocio.  After  a  turn  or 
two  he  wheeled  about. 


46  "HAWQRTirS." 

"  Why  don't  you  say  summat  ? "  he  demanded,  sardoni- 
cally.  "  Summat  moral.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
you've  not  got  pluck  enow  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Murdoch,  deliberately, — "  I  don't  see 
that  there's  anything  to  say.  Do  you  ?  " 

The  man  stared  at  him,  reddening.  Then  he  turned 
about  and  flung  himself  into  his  chair  again. 

"  No,"  he  answered.     "By  George  !  I  don't." 

They  discussed  the  matter  no  further.  It  seemed  to 
dispose  of  itself.  Their  acquaintance  went  on  in  the  old 
way,  but  there  were  moments  afterward  when  Murdoch 
felt  that  the  man  regarded  him  with  something  that  might 
have  been  restrained  or  secret  fear — a  something  which 
held  him  back  and  made  him  silent  and  unready  of 
speech.  Once,  in  the  midst  of  a  conversation  taking  a 
more  confidential  tone  than  usual,  to  his  companion's  as 
tonishment  he  stopped  and  spoke  bluntly : 

"  If  I  say  aught  as  goes  against  the  grain  with  you,"  he 
said,  "  speak  up,  lad.  Blast  it ! "  striking  his  fist  hard 
against  his  palm,  "  I'd  like  to  show  my  clean  side  to 
you." 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  spoke  first  of  his  mother. 

"When  I  run  away  from  the  poor-house,"  he  said,  "I 
left  her  there.  She's  a  soft-hearted  body — a  good  one  too. 
As  soon  as  I  earned  my  first  fifteen  shillin'  a  week,  I  gave 
her  a  house  of  her  own — and  I  lived  hard  to  do  it.  She 
lives  like  a  lady  now,  though  she's  as  simple  as  ever.  She 
knows  naught  of  the  world,  and  she  knows  naught  of  me 
beyond  what  she  sees  of  me  when  I  go  down  to  the  little 
country-place  in  Kent  with  a  new  silk  gown  and  a  lace  cap 
for  her.  She  scarce  ever  wears  'em,  but  she's  as  fond  on 
'em  as  if  she  got  'em  from  Buckingham  Palace.  She 
thinks  I'm  a  lad  yet,  and  say  my  prayers  every  night  and 


MR.    FU'REXCR.  47 

the  catechism  on  Sundays.  She'll  never  know  aught  else, 
if  I  can  help  it.  That's  why  I  keep  her  where  she  is." 

When  he  said  that  he  intended  to  make  "  Ha  worth's  " 
second  to  no  place  in  England,  he  had  not  spoken  idly. 
His  pride  in  the  place  was  a  passion.  lie  spent  money 
lavishly  but  shrewdly ;  he  paid  his  men  well,  but  ruled 
them  with  an  iron  hand.  Those  of  his  fellow-manufac 
turers  who  were  less  bold  and  also  less  keen-sighted,  re 
garded  him  with  no  small  disfavor. 

"  He'll  have  trouble  yet,  that  Ha  worth  fellow,"  they 
said. 

But  "  Haworth's  "  flourished  and  grew.  The  original 
works  were  added  to,  and  new  hands,  being  called  for, 
flocked  into  Broxton  with  their  families.  It  was  Jem 
Ila worth  who  built  the  rows  of  cottages  to  hold  them,  and 
he  built  them  well  and  substantially,  but  as  a  sharp  busi 
ness  investment  and  a  matter  of  pride  rather  than  from 
any  weakness  of  regarding  them  from  a  moral  stand-point. 

"  I'll  have  no  poor  jobs  done  on  my  place,"  he  announced. 
"I'll  leave  that  to  the  gentlemen  manufacturers." 

It  was  while  in  the  midst  of  this  work  that  he  received 
a  letter  from  Gerard  Ffrench,  who  was  still  abroad. 

Going  into  his  room  one  day  Murdoch  found  him  read 
ing  it  and  looking  excited. 

"  Here's  a  chap  as  would  be  the  chap  for  me,"  he  said, 
"  if  brass  were  iron — that  chap  Ffrench." 

"  What  does  he  want  ? "  Murdoch  asked. 

"  Naught  much,"  grimly.  "  He's  got  a  notion  of  com 
ing  back  here,  and  he'd  like  to  go  into  partnership  with 
me.  That's  what  he's  drivin'  at.  He'd  like  to  be  a  part 
ner  with  Jem  Haworth." 

"  What  has  he  to  offer  ? " 

"  Cheek,  and    plenty  on   it.     He   says  his  name's  well 


4:8  "HAWORTH'S." 

known,  and  he's  got  influence  as  well  as  practical  knowl 
edge.  I'd  like  to  have  a  bit  of  a  talk  with  him." 

Suddenly  he  struck  his  fist  on  the  table  before  him. 

"  I've  got  a  name  that's  enow  for  me,"  he  said.  "  The 
day's  to  come  yet  when  I  ask  any  chap  for  name  or  money 
or  aught  else.  Partner  be  damned!  This  here's 
'Haworth's!'" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"NOT    FOB   ONE    HOUR." 

THE  meetings  of  the  malcontents  continued  to  be  held  at 
the  "  Who'd  ha'  thowt  it,"  and  were  loud  voiced  and  fre 
quent,  but  notwithstanding  their  frequency  and  noisiness 
resulted  principally  in  a  disproportionate  consumption  of 
beer  and  tobacco  and  in  some  differences  of  opinion,  de 
cided  in  a  gentlemanly  manner  with  the  assistance  of 
"  backers  "  and  a  ring. 

Having  been  rescued  from  these  surroundings  by  Mur 
doch  on  several  convivial  occasions,  Briarley  began  to  an 
ticipate  his  appearance  with  resignation  if  not  cheerfulness, 
and  to  make  preparations  accordingly. 

"  I  mun  lay  a  sup  in  reet  at  th'  start,"  he  would  say. 
"  Theer's  no  kiiowin'  how  soon  he'll  turn  up  if  he  drops 
in  to  see  th'  women.  Gi'  me  a  glass  afore  these  chaps, 
Mary.  They  con  wait  a  bit." 

"Why  does  tha  stand  it,  tha  foo'?"  some  independent 
spirit  would  comment.  "  Con  th'  chap  carry  thee  whoam 
if  tha  does  na  want  to  go?  " 

But  Briarley  never  rebelled.  Resistance  was  not  his 
forte.  If  it  were  possible  to  become  comfortably  drunk 
before  he  was  sought  out  and  led  away  he  felt  it  a  matter 
for  mild  self-gratulation,  but  he  bore  defeat  amiably. 

"  Th'  missis  wants  me,"  he  would  say  unsteadily  but 
with  beaming  countenance,  on  catching  sight  of  Murdoch 
3 


50  "HAWORTH'8." 

or  Janey.  "  IV  missis  has  sent  to  ax  me  to  go  an' — an' 
set  wi'  her  a  bit.  I  raun  go,  chaps.  A  man  immna 
negleck  his  fam'ly." 

In  response  to  Mrs.  Briarley's  ratings  and  Janey's 
querulous  appeals,  it  was  his  habit  to  shed  tears  copiously 
and  with  a  touch  of  ostentation. 

"  I'm  a  poor  chap,  missus,"  he  would  say.  "  I'm  a  poor 
chap.  Yo?  uiimnot  be  hard  on  me.  I  nivver  wur  good 
enow  fur  a  woman  loike  yoursen.  I  should  na  wonder  if 
I  had  to  join  th'  teetotals  after  aw.  Tha  knows  it  allus 
rains  o'  Whit-Saturday,  when  they  ha'  their  walk,  an' 
that  theer  looks  as  if  th'  Almoighty  wur  on  th'  teetotal 
soide.  It's  rioan  loike  he'd  go  to  so  mich  trouble  if  he 
were  na." 

At  such  crises  as  these  "  th'  women  foak,"  as  he  called 
his  wife  and  Janey,  derived  their  greatest  consolation 
from  much  going  to  chapel. 

"  If  it  wur  na  fur  th'  bit  o'  comfort  I  get  theer,"  said 
the  poor  woman,  "I  should  na  know  whether  I  wur 
standin'  on  my  head  or  my  heels — betwixt  him,  an'  th' 
work,  an'  th'  childer." 

"  Happen  ye'd  loike  to  go  wi'  us,"  said  Janey  to  Mur 
doch,  one  day.  Yo'll  be  sure  to  hear  a  good  sermon t." 

Murdoch  went  with  them,  and  sat  in  a  corner  of  their 
free  seat — a  hard  one,  with  a  straight  and  unrelenting 
back.  But  he  was  not  prevented  by  the  seat  from  being 
interested  and  even  absorbed  by  the  doctrine.  He  had 
an  absent-minded  way  of  absorbing  impressions,  and  the 
unemotional  tenor  of  his  life  had  left  him  singularly  im 
partial.  He  did  not  finally  decide  that  the  sermon  was 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  but  he  pondered  on  it  and  its 
probable  effects  deeply,  and  with  no  little  curiosity.  It 
was  a  long  sermon,  and  one  which  "  hit  straight  from 


"NOT  FOR  ONE  HOUR."  51 

the  shoulder."  It  displayed  a  florid  heaven  and  a  burn 
ing  hell.  It  was  literal,  and  well  garnished  with  telling 
and  scriptural  quotations.  Once  or  twice  during  its  de 
livery  Murdoch  glanced  at  Janey  and  Mrs.  Briarley. 
The  woman,  during  intervals  of  eager  pacifying  of  the 
big  baby,  lifted  her  pale  face  and  listened  devoutly. 
Janey  sat  respectable  and  rigorous,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  pulpit,  her  huge  shawl  folded  about  her,  her  bonnet 
slipping  backward  at  intervals,  and  requiring  to  be  re 
peatedly  rearranged  by  a  smart  hustling  somewhere  in  the 
region  of  the  crown. 

The  night  was  very  quiet  when  they  came  out  into  the 
open  air.  The  smoke-clouds  of  the  day  had  been  driven 
away  by  a  light  breeze,  and  the  sky  was  bright  with  stars. 
Mrs.  Briarley  and  the  ubiquitous  baby  joined  a  neighbor 
and  hastened  home,  but  Murdoch  and  Janey  lingered  a 
little. 

"My  father  is  buried  here,"  Murdoch  had  said,  and 
Janey  had  answered  with  sharp  curiousness, — 

"Wheer's  th'  place?  I'd  loike  to  see  it.  Has  tha 
gotten  a  big  head -stone  up  ?  " 

She  was  somewhat  disappointed  to  find  there  was  none, 
und  that  nothing  but  the  sod  covered  the  long  mound, 
but  she  appeared  to  comprehend  the  state  of  affairs  at 
once. 

"  I  s'pose  tha'lt  ha'  one  after  a  bit,"  she  said,  "  when 
tha'rt  not  so  short  as^  tha  art  now.  Ivverybody's  short  i' 
these  toimes." 

She  seated  herself  upon  the  stone  coping  of  the  next 
grave,  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  a  small,  weird  figure  in  the 
uncertain  light. 

"  I  all  us  did  loike  a  big  head -stone,"  she  remarked,  re 
flectively.  "  Theer's  sum  mat  noice  about  a  big  white  un 


52  "HAWORTIPS." 

wi'  black  letters  on  it.  1  loike  a  white  uu  th'  best,  an1 
ha'  th'  letters  cut  deep,  an'  th'  name  big,  an'  a  bit  o' 
poitry  at  th'  eend  : 

*  Stranger,  a  moment  linger  near. 
An'  hark  to  th'  one  as  moulders  here  ; 
Thy  bones,  loike  mine,  shall  rot  i'  th'  ground, 
Until  th'  last  awful  trumpet's  sound ; 
Thy  flesh,  loike  mine,  fa'  to  decay, 
For  mon  is  made  to  pass  away.' 

Summat  loike  that.  But  yo'  see  it  ud  be  loike  to  cost  so 
much.  What  wi'  th'  stone  an'  paint  an'  cuttin',  I  should 
na  wonder  if  it  would  na  coom  to  th'  matter  o'  two  pound 
— an'  then  theer's  th'  funeral." 

She  ended  with  a  sigh,  and  sank  for  a  moment  into  a 
depressed  reverie,  but  in  the  course  of  a  few  moments  she 
roused  herself  again. 

"  Tell  me  summat  about  thy  feyther,"  she  demanded. 

Murdoch  bent  down  and  plucked  a  blade  of  grass  with 
a  rather  uncertain  grasp. 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  he  answered.  "  He  was 
unfortunate,  and  had  a  hard  life — and  died." 

Janey  looked  at  his  lowered  face  with  a  sharp,  imchild- 
ish  twinkle  in  her  eye. 

"  Would  tha  moind  me  axin  thee  summat  ? "  she  said. 

"  No." 

But  she  hesitated  a  little  before  she  put  the  question. 

"  Is  it — wur  it  true — as  he  wur  iia  aw  theer — as  he  wur 
a  bit— a  bit  soft  i'  th'  yed  ? " 

"  No,  that  is  not  true." 

"  I'm  glad  it  is  na,"  she  responded.  "  Art  tha  loike 
him?" 

"  I  don't  know." 


"J/OT  FOR  ONE  HOUR:1  53 

"  I  hope  tha  art  na,  if  he  did  na  ha'  luck.  Theer's  a 
great  deal  i'  luck."  Then,  with  a  quick  change  of  sub 
ject, — «  How  did  tha  loike  th'  sermont  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  he  answered,  "  that  I  know  that  either. 
How  did  you  like  it  yourself?  " 

"  Ay,"  with  an  air  of  elderly  approval,  "  it  wur  a  good 
un.  Mester  Hixon  allus  gi'es  us  a  good  un.  He  owts  wi' 
what  he's  getten  to  say.  I  loike  a  preacher  as  owts  wi' 
it." 

A  few  moments  later,  when  they  rose  to  go  home,  her 
mind  seemed  suddenly  to  revert  to  a  former  train  of 
thought. 

u  Wur  theer  money  i'  that  thing  thy  feyther  wur  try  in' 
at  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  for  him,  it  seemed." 

"  Ay ;  but  theer  mought  be  fur  thee.  Tha  mayst  ha' 
more  in  thee  than  he  had,  an'  mought  mak'  suminat  on  it. 
I'd  nivver  let  owt  go  as  had  money  i'  it.  Tha'dst  mak'  a 
better  rich  mon  than  Haworth." 

After  leaving  her  Murdoch  did  not  go  home.  He 
turned  his  back  upon  the  village  again,  and  walked 
rapidly  away  from  it,  out  on  the  country  road  and  across 
field  paths,  and  did  not  turn  until  he  was  miles  from 
Broxton. 

Of  late  he  had  been  more  than  usually  abstracted.  He 
had  been  restless,  and  at  times  nervously  unstrung.  He 
had  slept  ill,  and  spent  his  days  in  a  half-conscious  mood. 
More  than  once,  as  they  walked  together,  Floxham  had 
spoken  to  him  amazed. 

"  What's  up  wi'  thee,  lad  ?"  he  had  said.  "  Art  dazed, 
or  hast  tha  takken  a  turn  an'  been  on  a  spree  ?  " 

One  night,  when  they  were  together,  Haworth  had 
picked  up  from  the  floor  a  rough  but  intricate-looking 


54-  "HAWORTU'S." 

drawing,  and,  on  handing  it  to  him,  had  been  bewildered 
by  his  sudden  change  of  expression. 

"  Is  it  aught  of  yours  ?  "  he  had  asked. 

"  Yes,"  the  young  fellow  had  answered  ;  "  it's  mine." 

But,  instead  of  replacing  it  in  his  pocket,  he  had  torn  it 
slowly  into  strips,  and  thrown  it,  piece  by  piece,  into  the 
fire,  watching  it  as  it  burned. 

It  was  not  Janey's  eminently  practical  observations 
which  had  stirred  him  to-night.  He  had  been  drifting 
toward  this  feverish  crisis  of  feeling  for  months,  and  had 
contested  its  approach  inch  by  inch.  There  were  hours 
when  he  was  overpowered  by  the  force  of  what  he  battled 
against,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he  returned,  and  his 
mother  met  him  at  the  door  with  an  anxious  look.  It  was 
a  look  he  had  seen  upon  her  face  all  his  life ;  but  its 
effect  upon  himself  had  never  lessened  from  the  day  he 
had  first  recognized  it,  as  a  child. 

"  1  did  not  think  you  would  wait  for  me,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  later  than  I  thought." 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  she  answered. 

She  had  aged  a  little  since  her  husband's  death,  but 
otherwise  she  had  not  changed.  She  looked  up  at  her  son 
just  as  she  had  looked  at  his  father, — watchfully,  but  say 
ing  little. 

"  Are  you  going  to  bed  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  upstairs,"  he  replied.  But  he  did  not  say 
that  he  was  going  to  bed. 

He  bade  her  good-night  shortly  afterward,  and  went  to 
his  room.  It  was  the  one  his  father  had  used  before  his 
death,  and  the  trunk  containing  his  belongings  stood  in 
one  corner  of  it. 

For  a  short  time  after  entering  the  room  he  paced  the 


" NOT  FOR  ONE  HOUR:''  55 

floor  restlessly  and  irregularly.  Sometimes  he  walked 
quickly,  sometimes  slowly;  once  or  twice  he  stopped 
short,  checking  himself  as  he  veered  toward  the  corner  in 
which  stood  the  unused  trunk. 

"  I'm  in  a  queer  humor,"  he  said  aloud.  "  I'm  thinking 
of  it  as  if — as  if  it  were  a  temptation  to  sin.  Why  should 
I  ? " 

He  made  a  sudden  resolute  movement  forward.  He 
knelt  down,  and,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock,  flung  the 
trunk-lid  backward. 

There  was  only  one  thing  he  wanted,  and  he  knew 
where  to  find  it.  It  lay  buried  at  the  bottom,  under  the 
unused  garments,  which  gave  forth  a  faint,  damp  odor  as 
he  moved  them.  When  he  rose  from  his  knees  he  held 
the  wooden  case  in  his  hand.  After  lie  had  carried  it  to 
the  fable  and  opened  it,  and  the  model  stood  again  before 
him  he  sat  down  and  stared  at  it  with  a  numb  sense  of 
fascination. 

"  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  last  of  it,"  he  said ;  "  and 
h«./fe  it  is." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  felt  his  blood  warm  within  him, 
a;  id  flush  his  cheek.  His  hand  trembled  as  he  put  it  forth 
to  touch  and  move  the  frame-work  before  him.  He  felt 
as  if  it  were  a  living  creature.  His  eye  kindled,  and  he 
bent  forward. 

"  There's  something  to  be  done  with  it  yet,"  he  said. 
"  It's  not  a  blunder,  I'll  swear  ! " 

He  was  hot  with  eagerness  and  excitement.  The  thing 
had  haunted  him  day  and  night  for  weeks.  He  had 
struggled  to  shake  off  its  influence,  but  in  vain.  He  had 
told  himself  that  the  temptation  to  go  back  to  it  and  pon 
der  over  it  was  the  working  of  a  morbid  taint  in  his 
blood.  He  had  remembered  the  curse  it  had  been,  and 


56  "HAWORTH'S." 

had  tried  to  think  of  that  only ;  but  it  had  come  back  to 
him  again  and  again,  and — here  it  was. 

He  spent  an  hour  over  it,  and  in  the  end  his  passionate 
eagerness  had  grown  rather  than  diminished.  He  put  his 
hand  up  to  his  forehead  and  brushed  away  drops  of  mois 
ture,  his  throat  was  dry,  and  his  eyes  strained. 

"  There's  something  to  be  brought  out  of  it  yet,"  he 
said,  as  he  had  said  before.  "  It  can  be  done,  I  swear  !  " 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  his  lips  before  he  heard 
behind  him  a  low,  but  sharp  cry — a  miserable  ejaculation, 
half  uttered. 

He  had  not  heard  the  door  open,  nor  the  entering  foot 
steps  ;  but  he  knew  what  the  cry  meant  the  moment  he 
heard  it.  He  turned  about  and  saw  his  mother  standing 
on  the  threshold.  Tf  he  had  been  detected  in  the  com 
mission  of  a  crime,  he  could  not  have  felt  a  sharper  pang 
than  he  did.  He  almost  staggered  against  the  wall  and 
did  not  utter  a  word.  For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each 
other  in  a  dead  silence.  Each  wore  in  the  eyes  of  the 
other  a  new  aspect.  She  pointed  to  the  model. 

"  It  has  come  back,"  she  said.     "  I  knew  it  would." 

The  young  fellow  turned  and  looked  at  it  a  little  stu 
pidly. 

"  I — didn't  mean  to  hurt  you  with  the  sight  of  it,"  he 
said.  "  I  took  it  out  because — because " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  movement  of  her  head. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  You  took  it  out  because  it 
has  haunted  you  and  tempted  you.  You  could  not  with 
stand  it.  It  is  in  your  blood." 

He  had  known  her  through  all  his  life  as  a  patient 
creature,  whose  very  pains  had  bent  themselves  and  held 
themselves  in  check,  lest  they  should  seem  for  an  hour  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  the  end  to  be  accomplished.  That 


"NOT  FOR  ONE  HOUR.'-  57 

she  had,  even  in  the  deepest  secrecy,  rebelled  against  fate, 
he  had  never  dreamed. 

She  came  to  the  table  and  struck  the  model  aside  with 
one  angry  blow. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  the  truth  ?  "  she  cried,  panting.  "  I 
have  never  believed  in  it  for  an  hour — not  for  one 
hour  !  " 

He  could  only  stammer  out  a  few  halting  words. 

"  This  is  all  new  to  me,"  he  said.     "  I  did  not  know " 

"  No,  you  did  not  know,"  she  answered.  "  How  should 
you,  when  I  lived  my  whole  life  to  hide  it  ?  I  have  been 
stronger  than  you  thought.  I  bore  with  him,  as  I  should 
have  borne  with  him  if  he  had  been  maimed  or  blind — or 
worse  than  that.  /  did  not  hurt  him — he  had  hurt  enough. 
I  knew  what  the  end  would  be.  He  would  have  been  a 
happy  man  and  I  a  happy  woman,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
that,  and  there  it  is  again.  I  tell  you,"  passionately, 
"  there  is  a  curse  on  it !  " 

"  And  you  think,"  he  said,  "  that  it  has  fallen  upon 
me  ? " 

She  burst  into  wild  tears. 

"  I  have  told  myself  it  would,"  she  said.  "  I  have  tried 
to  prepare  myself  for  its  coming  some  day ;  but  I  did  not 
think  it  would  show  itself  so  soon  as  this." 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  don't  know 
— what  there  is  in  me  that  I  should  think  I  might  do 
what  he  left  undone.  There  seems  a  kind  of  vanity  in 
it." 

"  It  is  not  vanity,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is  worse.  It  is  what 
has  grown  out  of  my  misery  and  his.  I  tell  you  it  is  in 
your  blood." 

A  flush  rose  to  his  face,  and  a  stubborn  look  settled 
upon  him. 

3* 


58  ''HAWORT&S." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  told  myself 
that,  too." 

She  held  her  closed  hand  upon  her  heart,  as  if  to  crush 
down  its  passionate  heavings. 

"  Begin  as  he  began,"  she  cried,  "  and  the  end  will 
come  to  you  as  it  came  to  him.  Give  it  up  now — now  ! " 

"  Give  it  up !  "  he  repeated  after  her. 

"  Give  it  up,"  she  answered,  "  or  give  up  your  whole 
life,  your  youth,  your  hope,— all  that  belongs  to  it." 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him  in  a  wild,  unconsciously 
theatrical  gesture.  The  whole  scene  had  been  theatrical 
through  its  very  incongruousness,  and  Murdoch  had  seen 
this  vaguely,  and  been  more  shaken  by  it  than  anything 
else. 

Before  she  knew  what  he  meant  to  do,  he  approached 
the  table,  and  replaced  the  model  in  its  box,  the  touch  of 
stubborn  desperateness  on  him  yet.  He  carried  the  case 
back  to  the  trunk,  and  shut  it  in  once  more. 

"  I'll  let  it  rest  a  while,"  he  said ;  "  I'll  promise  you 
that.  If  it  is  ever  to  be  finished  by  me,  the  time  will 
come  when  it  will  see  the  light  again,  in  spite  of  us 
both." 


CHAPTER  X. 

CHRISTIAN    MURDOCH. 

As  he  was  turning  into  the  gate  of  the  Works  the  next 
morning,  a  little  lad  touched  him  upon  the  elbow. 

"  Mester,"  he  said,  "  sithee,  Mester, — stop  a  bit." 

He  was  out  of  breath,  as  if  he  had  been  running,  and 
he  held  in  his  hand  a  slip  of  paper. 

"  1  thowt  I  should  na  ketch  thee,"  he  said,  "tha'rt  so 
long-legged.  A  woman  sent  thee  that,"  and  he  gave  him 
the  slip  of  paper. 

Murdoch  opened  and  read  the  words  written  upon  it. 

"  If  you  are  Stephen  Murdoch's  son,  I  must  see  you.  Come  with 
the  child." 

There  was  no  signature — only  these  words,  written  ir 
regularly  and  weakly.  He  had  never  met  with  an  ad 
venture  in  his  life,  and  this  was  like  an  episode  in  a 
romance. 

"  If  you  are  Stephen  Murdoch's  son,  I  must  see  you." 

He  could  scarcely  realize  that  he  was  standing  in  the 
narrow,  up-hill  street,  jostled  by  the  hands  shouting  and 
laughing  as  they  streamed  past  him  through  the  gates  to 
their  work. 

And  yet,  somehow  he  found  himself  taking  it  more 
coolly  than  seemed  exactly  natural.  This  morning,  emo 
tion  and  event  appeared  less  startling  than  they  would 


60  "HAWORT&S." 

have  done  even  the  day  before.  The  strange  scene  of 
the  past  night  had,  in  a  manner,  prepared  him  for  any 
thing  which  might  happen. 

<c  Who  sent  it  ? "  he  asked  of  the  boy. 

"  Th'  woman  as  lodges  i'  our  house.  She's  been  theer 
three  days,  an'  she's  getten  to  th'  last,  mother  says.  Con 
tha  coom  ?  She's  promist  me  a  shillin'  if  I  browt  thee." 

"  Wait  here  a  minute,"  said  Murdoch. 

He  passed  into  the  works  and  went  to  Floxham. 

"  I've  had  a  message  that  calls  me  away,"  he  said. 
"  If  you  can  spare  me  for  an  hour •  " 

"  I'll  mak'  out,"  said  the  engineer. 

The  lad  at  the  gate  looked  up  with  an  encouraging  grin 
when  lie  saw  his  charge  returning. 

«  I'd  ioike  to  mak'  th'  shillin',"  he  said. 

Murdoch  followed  him  in  silence.  He  was  thinking  of 
what  was  going  to  happen  to  himself  scarcely  as  much  as 
of  the  dead  man  in  whose  name  he  was  called  upon.  He 
was  brought  near  to  him  again  as  if  it  were  by  a  fate. 
"If  you  are  Stephen  Murdoch's  son,"  had  moved  him 
strongly. 

Their  destination  was  soon  reached.  It  was  a  house  in 
a  narrow  but  respectable  street  occupied  chiefly  by  a 
decent  class  of  workmen  and  their  families.  A  week 
before  he  had  seen  in  the  window  of  this  same  house  a 
card  bearing  the  legend  "  Lodgings  to  Let,"  and  now  it- 
was  gone.  A  clean,  motherly  woman  opened  the  door 
for  them. 

"  Tha'st  earnt  thy  shillin',  has  tha,  tha  young  nowt  ? " 
she  said  to  the  lad,  with  friendly  severity.  "  Coorn  in, 
Mester.  I  wur  feart  he'd  get  off  on  some  of  his  mar- 
locks  an'  forget  aw  about  th'  paper.  She's  i'  a  bad  way, 
poor  lady,  an'  th'  lass  is  na  o'  mich  use.  Coom  up-stairs." 


CHRISTIAN  MURDOCH.  61 

She  led  the  way  to  the  second  floor,  and  her  knock 
being  answered  by  a  voice  inside,  she  opened  the  door. 
The  room  was  comfortable  and  of  good  size,  a  fire  burned 
on  the  grate,  and  before  it  sat  a  girl  with  her  hands 
clasped  upon  her  knee. 

She  was  a  girl  of  nineteen,  dark  of  face  and  slight  of 
figure  to  thinness.  When  she  turned  her  head  slowly  to 
look  at  him,  Murdoch  was  struck  at  once  with  the  pecu 
liar  steadiness  of  her  large  black  eyes. 

"  She  is  asleep,"  she  said  in  a  low,  cold  voice. 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  movement  in  the  bed. 

"  I  am  awake,"  some  one  said.  "  If  it  is  Stephen  Mur 
doch's  son,  let  him  come  here." 

Murdoch  went  to  the  bedside  and  stood  looking  down 
at  the  woman  who  returned  his  gaze.  She  was  a  woman 
whose  last  hours  upon  earth  were  passing  rapidly.  Her 
beauty  was  now  only  something  terrible  to  see;  her 
breath  came  fast  and  short ;  her  eyes  met  his  with  a  look 
of  anguish. 

"  Send  the  girl  away,"  she  said  to  him. 

Low  as  her  voice  was,  the  girl  heard  it.  She  rose  with 
out  turning  to  right  or  left  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

Until  the  door  closed  the  woman  still  lay  looking  up 
into  her  visitor's  face,  but  as  soon  as  it  was  shut  she 
spoke  laboriously. 

"  What  is  your  name  ? "  she  asked. 

He  told  her. 

"  You  are  like  your  father,"  she  said,  and  then  closed 
her  eyes  and  lay  so  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  a  mad  thing  I 
am  doing,"  she  said,  knitting  her  brows  with  weak  fret- 
fulness,  and  still  lying  with  closed  eyes.  "I — I  do  not 
know — why  I  should  have  done  it — only  that  it  is  the  last 
thing.  It  is  not  that  I  am  fond  of  the  girl — or  that  she 


62  "HAWORTWS" 

is  fond  of  me,"  she  opened  her  eyes  with  a  start.  "  Is  the 
door  shut  ?"  she  said.  "  Keep  her  out  of  the  room." 

"  She  is  not  here,"  he  answered,  "  and  the  door  is 
closed." 

The  sight  of  his  face  seemed  to  help  her  to  recover 
herself. 

"  What  am  I  saying  ? "  she  said.  "  I  have  not  told  you 
who  I  am." 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  not  yet." 

"  My  name  was  Janet  Murdoch,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
your  father's  cousin.  Once  he  was  very  fond  of  me." 

She  drew  from  under  her  pillow  a  few  old  letters. 

"  Look  at  them,"  she  said ;  "  he  wrote  them." 

But  he  only  glanced  at  the  superscription  and  laid 
them  down  again. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  she  panted,  "  that  he  was  dead.  I 
hoped  he  would  be  here.  I  knew  that  he  must  have 
lived  a  quiet  life.  I  always  thought  of  him  as  living  here 
in  the  old  way." 

"  He  was  away  from  here  for  thirty  years,"  said  Mur 
doch.  "  He  only  came  back  to  die." 

"  He  ! "  she  said,  "  I  never  thought  of  that.  It — 
seems  very  strange.  I  could  not  imagine  his  going  from 
place  to  place — or  living  a  busy  life — or  suffering  much. 
He  was  so  simple  and  so  quiet." 

"I  thought  of  him,"  she  went  on,  "because  he  was  a 
good  man — a  good  man — and  there  was  no  one  else  in  the 
world.  As  the  end  came  I  grew  restless — I  wanted  to — 
to  try " 

But  there  her  eyes  closed  and  she  forgot  herself  again. 

"What  was  it  you  wanted  to  try  to  do?"  he  asked 
gently. 

She  roused  herself,  as  before,  with  a  start. 


CHRISTIAN  MURDOCH.  63 

"  To  try,"  she  said, — "  to  try  to  do  something  for  the 
girl." 

He  did  not  understand  what  she  meant  until  she  had 
dragged  herself  up  upon  the  pillow  and  leaned  forward 
touching  him  with  her  hand;  she  had  gathered  all  her 
strength  for  the  effort. 

"  I  am  an  outcast,"  she  said, — "  an  outcast !  " 

The  simple  and  bare  words  were  so  terrible  that  he 
could  scarcely  bear  them,  but  he  controlled  himself  by  a 
strong  effort. 

A  faint  color  crept  up  on  her  cheek. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  slowly,  "  I  think  I  do." 

She  fell  back  upon  her  pillows. 

"  I  wont  tell  you  the  whole  story,"  she  said.  "  It  is  an 
ugly  one,  and  she  will  be  ready  enough  with  it  when  her 
turn  comes.  She  has  understood  all  her  life.  She  has 
never  been  a  child.  She  seemed  to  fasten  her  eyes  upon 
me  from  the  hour  of  her  birth,  and  I  have  felt  them  ever 
since.  Keep  her  away,"  with  a  shudder.  "  Don't  let  her 
come  in." 

A  sudden  passion  of  excitement  seized  upon  her. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  care,"  she  cried.  "  There 
is  no  reason  why  she  should  not  live  as  I  have  lived — but 
she  will  not — she  will  not.  I  have  reached  the  end  and 
she  knows  it.  She  sits  and  looks  on  and  says  nothing, 
but  her  eyes  force  me  to  speak.  They  forced  me  to  come 
here — to  try — to  make  a  last  effort.  If  Stephen  Murdoch 
had  lived- " 

She  stopped  a  moment. 

"  You  are  a  poor  man,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  I  am  a  mechanic." 

"  Then — you  cannot — do  it." 


64  "HAWORTW8." 

She  spoke  helplessly,  wildly. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done.  There  is  no  one  else. 
She  will  be  all  alone." 

Then  he  comprehended  her  meaning  fully. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  so  poor  as  that.  I  am  not  a 
poorer  man  than  my  father  was,  and  I  can  do  what  he 
would  have  done  had  he  lived.  My  mother  will  care  for 
the  girl,  if  that  is  what  you  wish." 

"  What  I  wish !  "  she  echoed.  "  I  wish  for  nothing — 
but  I  must  do  something  for  her — before — before — 
before " 

She  broke  off,  but  began  again. 

"  You  are  like  your  father.  You  make  things  seem 
simple.  You  speak  as  if  you  were  undertaking  nothing." 

"  It  is  not  much  to  do,"  he  answered,  "  and  we  could 
not  do  less.  I  will  go  to  my  mother  and  tell  her  that  she 
is  needed  here.  She  will  come  to  you." 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him  in  terror. 

"  You  think,"  she  whispered,  "  that  I  shall  die  soon — 
soon  !  " 

He  did  not  answer  her.  He  could  not.  She  wrung 
her  hands  and  dashed  them  open  upon  the  bed,  panting. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  my  God  !  It  is  over !  I  have  come 
to  the  end  of  it — the  end  !  To  have  only  one  life — and  to 
have  done  with  it — and  lie  here !  To  have  lived — and 
loved — and  triumphed,  and  to  know  it  is  over  !  One  may 
defy  all  the  rest,  the  whole  world,  but  not  this.  It  is 
done}* 

Then  she  turned  to  him  again,  desperately. 

"  Go  to  your  mother,"  she  said.  "  Tell  her  to  come.  I 
want  some  one  in  the  room  with  me.  I  wont  be  left  alone 
with  her.  I  cannot  bear  it." 

On  going  out  he  found  the  girl  sitting  at  the  head  of 


CHRISTIAN  MURDOCH.  65 

the  stairs.  She  rose  and  stood  aside  to  let  him  pass,  look 
ing  at  him  unflinchingly. 

"  Are  you  coming  back  ? "  she  demanded. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  coming  back." 

In  half  an  hour  he  re-ascended  the  staircase,  bringing 
his  mother  with  him.  When  they  entered  the  room  in 
which  the  dying  woman  lay,  Mrs.  Murdoch  went  to  the 
bed  and  bent  over  her. 

"  My  son  has  brought  me  to  do  what  I  can  for  you," 
she  said,  "  and  to  tell  you  that  he  will  keep  his  promise." 

The  woman  looked  up.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  that 
she  had  forgotten.  A  change  had  come  upon  her  even 
in  the  intervening  half -hour. 

"  His  promise,"  she  said.     "  Yes,  he  will  keep  it." 

At  midnight  she  died.  Mother  and  son  were  in  the 
room,  the  girl  sat  in  a  chair  at  the  bedside.  Her  hands 
were  clasped  upon  her  knee ;  she  sat  without  motion.  At 
a  few  minutes  before  the  stroke  of  twelve,  the  woman 
awoke  from  the  heavy  sleep  in  which  she  had  lain.  She 
awoke  with  a  start  and  a  cry,  and  lay  staring  at  the  girl, 
whose  steady  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  Her  lips  moved, 
and  at  last  she  spoke. 

"  Forgive  me !  "  she  cried.     "  Forgive  me ! " 

Murdoch  and  his  mother  rose,  but  the  girl  did  not 
stir. 

"  For  what  ? "  she  asked. 

"  For —  "  panted  the  woman,  "  for J> 

But  the  sentence  remained  unfinished.  The  girl  did 
not  utter  a  word.  She  sat  looking  at  the  dying  woman  in 
silence — only  looking  at  her,  not  once  moving  her  eyes 
from  the  face  which,  a  moment  later,  was  merely  a  mask 
of  stone  which  lay  upon  the  pillow,  gazing  back  at  her 
with  a  fixed  stare. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MISS    FFKENCH    RETUKNS. 

THEY  took  the  girl  home  with  them,  and  three  days 
later  the  Ffrenchs  returned.  They  came  entirely  un 
heralded,  and  it  was  Janey  who  brought  the  news  of  their 
arrival  to  the  Works. 

"  They've  coom,"  she  said,  in  passing  Murdoch  on  her 
way  to  her  father.  "  Mester  Ffrench  an'  her.  They  rode 
through  th'  town  this  mornin'  i'  a  kerridge.  Nobody 
knowed  about  it  till  they  seed  'em." 

The  news  was  the  principal  topic  of  conversation 
through  the  day,  and  the  comments  made  were  numerous 
and  varied.  The  most  general  opinions  were  that  Ffrench 
was  in  a  "  tight  place,"  or  had  "  getten  some  crank  i' 
hond." 

"  He's  noan  fond  enow  o'  th'  place  to  ha'  coom  back 
fur  nowt,"  said  Floxham.  "  He's  a  bit  harder  up  than 
common,  that's  it." 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  Ha  worth  came  in.  Mur 
doch  was  struck  with  his  unsettled  and  restless  air ;  he 
came  in  awkwardly,  and  looking  as  if  he  had  something 
to  say,  but  though  he  loitered  about  some  time,  he  did  not 
say  it. 

"  Come  up  to  the  house  to-night,"  he  broke  out  at  last. 
"  I  want  company." 

It  occurred  to  Murdoch  that  he  wished   to  say  more, 


MISS  FFRENCH  RETURNS.  67 

but,  after  lingering  for  a  few  minutes,  he  went  away. 
As  he  crossed  the  threshold,  however,  he  paused  un 
easily. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  Ffrench  has  come  back." 

"  So  I  heard,"  Murdoch  answered. 

When  he  presented  himself  at  the  house  in  the  even 
ing,  Haworth  was  alone  as  usual.  Wines  were  on  the 
table,  and  he  seemed  to  have  drunk  deeply.  He  was 
flushed,  and  showed  still  the  touch  of  uneasiness  and  ex 
citement  he  had  betrayed  in  the  morning. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come,"  he  said.  "  I'm  out  of  sorts — 
:»r  something." 

He  ended  with  a  short  laugh,  and  turned  about  to  pour 
out  a  glass  of  wine.  In  doing  so  his  hand  trembled  so 
that  a  few  drops  fell  upon  it.  He  shook  them  off  angrily. 

"  What's  up  with  me  ? "  he  said. 

He  drained  the  glass  at  a  draught,  and  filled  it  again. 

"  I  saw  Ffrench  to-day,"  he  said.     "  I  saw  them  both." 

"  Both  ! "  repeated  Murdoch,  wondering  at  him. 

"  Yes.     She  is  with  him." 

"  She ! "  and  then  remembering  the  episode  of  the 
handkerchief,  he  added,  rather  slowly,  "  You  mean  Miss 
Ffrench?" 

Haworth  nodded. 

He  was  pushing  his  glass  to  and  fro  with  shaking 
aands,  his  voice  was  hoarse  and  uncertain. 

"  I  passed  the  carriage  on  the  road,"  he  said,  "  and 
Ffrench  stopped  it  to  speak  to  me.  He's  not  much  al 
tered.  I  never  saw  her  before.  She's  a  woman  now — 
and  a  handsome  woman,  by  George ! " 

The  last  words  broke  from  him  as  if  he  could  not  con 
trol  them.  He  looked  up  at  Murdoch,  and  as  their  eyes 
met  he  seemed  to  let  himself  loose. 


68  "HA  WORTH'S." 

"  I  may  as  well  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,"  he  said, 
« I'm— I'm  hard  hit.  I'm  hard  hit." 

Murdoch  flinched.  He  would  rather  not  have  heard 
the  rest.  He  had  had  emotion  enough  during  the  last 
few  days,  and  this  was  of  a  kind  so  novel  that  he  was 
overwhelmed  by  it.  But  Ha  worth  went  on. 

"  It's  a  queer  thing,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  quite  make  it 
out.  I — I  feel  as  if  I  must  talk — about  it — and  yet 
there's  naught  to  say.  I've  seen  a  woman  that's — that's 
taken  hold  on  me." 

He  passed  his  hands  across  his  lips,  which  were  parched 
and  stiff. 

"  You  know  the  kind  of  a  fellow  I've  been,"  he  said. 
"  I've  known  women  enough,  and  too  many ;  but  there's 
never  been  one  like  this.  There's  always  been  plenty 
like  the  rest.  I  sat  and  stared  at  this  one  like  a  block 
head.  She  set  me  trembling.  It  came  over  me  all  at 
once.  I  don't  know  what  Ffrench  thought.  I  said  to 
myself,  c  Here's  the  first  woman  that  ever  held  me  back.' 
She's  one  of  your  high  kind,  that's  hard  to  get  nigh. 
She's  got  a  way  to  set  a  man  mad.  She'll  be  hard  to  get 
at,  by  George  !  " 

Murdoch  felt  his  pulse  start.  The  man's  emotion  had 
communicated  itself  to  him,  so  far  at  least. 

"  I  don't  know  much  of  women,"  he  said.  "  I've  not 
been  thrown  among  them ;  I " 

"  No,"  said  Haworth  roughly,  "  they're  not  in  your  line, 
lad.  If  they  were,  happen  I  shouldn't  be  so  ready  to 
speak  out." 

Then  he  began  and  told  his  story  more  minutely,  relating 
how,  as  he  drove  to  the  Works,  he  had  met  the  carriage, 
and  Ffrench  had  caught  sight  of  him  and  ordered  the  ser 
vant  to  stop ;  how  he  had  presented  his  daughter,  and 


MISS  FFRENCH  RETURNS.  69 

spoken  as  if  she  had  heard  of  him  often  before ;  how  she 
had  smiled  a  little,  but  had  said  nothing. 

"  She's  got  a  way  which  makes  a  man  feel  as  if  she  was 
keeping  something  back,  and  sets  him  to  wondering  what 
it  is.  She's  not  likely  to  be  forgot  soon  ;  she  gives  a  chap 
something  to  think  over." 

He  talked  fast  and  heatedly,  and  sometimes  seemed  to 
lose  himself.  Now  and  then  he  stopped,  and  sat  brooding 
a  moment  in  silence,  and  then  roused  himself  with  a  start, 
and  drank  more  wine  and  grew  more  flushed  and  excited. 
After  one  of  these  fitful  reveries,  he  broke  out  afresh. 

"  I — wonder  what  folk'll  say  to  her  of  me.  They  wont 
give  me  an  over  good  name,  I'll  warrant.  What  a  fool 

I've  been!     What  a  d fool  I've  been  all  my  life! 

Let  them  say  what  they  like.  They'll  make  me  black 
enough ;  but  there  is  plenty  would  like  to  stand  in  Jem 
Ha  worth's  shoes.  I've  never  been  beat  yet.  I've  stood 
up  and  held  my  own, — and  women  like  that.  And  as  to 
th'  name,"  with  rough  banter,  "it's  not  chaps  like  you 
they  fancy,  after  all." 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Murdoch  coldly,  "  I've  told  you  I 
know  nothing  of  women." 

He  felt  restive  without  knowing  why.  He  was  glad 
when  he  could  free  himself  and  get  out  into  the  fresh 
night  air ;  it  seemed  all  the  fresher  after  the  atmosphere 
he  had  breathed  in-doors. 

The  night  was  bright  and  mild.  After  cold,  un-spring- 
like  weather  had  come  an  ephemeral  balminess.  The 
moon  was  at  full,  and  he  stepped  across  the  threshold  into 
a  light  as  clear  as  day. 

He  walked  rapidly,  scarcely  noting  the  road  he  passed 
over  until  he  had  reached  the  house  which  stood  alone 
among  its  trees, — the  house  Ha  worth  had  pointed  out  a 


70  "  HA  WORTH'S." 

few  months  before.  It  was  lighted  now,  and  its  lights 
attracted  his  attention. 

"  It's  a  brighter-looking  place  than  it  was  then,"  he  said. 

He  never  afterward  could  exactly  recall  how  it  was  that 
at  this  moment  he  started,  turned,  and  for  a  breath's  space 
came  to  a  full  stop. 

He  had  passed  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  high  boundary 
wall  into  the  broad  moonlight  which  flooded  the  gate- way. 
The  iron  gates  were  open,  and  a  white  figure  stood  in  the 
light — the  figure  of  a  tall  young  woman  who  did  not  move. 

He  was  so  near  that  her  dress  almost  touched  him.  In 
another  moment  he  was  hurrying  along  the  road  again, 
not  having  spoken,  and  scarcely  understanding  the  mo 
mentary  shock  he  had  received. 

"  That,"  he  said  to  himself,—"  that  was  she !  " 

When  he  reached  home  and  opened  the  door  of  the  lit 
tie  parlor,  Christian   Murdoch  was  sitting  alone  by  the 
dying  fire  in  the  grate.     She  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Something,"  she  said,  "  has  happened  to  you.  What 
is  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  "  that  anything  has  hap 
pened  to  me — anything  of  importance." 

She  turned  to  the  fire  again  and  sat  gazing  at  it,  rubbing 
the  back  of  one  hand  slowly  with  the  palm  of  the  other,  as 
it  lay  on  her  knee. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  me,"  she  said.  "  To-day 
I  have  seen  some  one  I  know." 

"  Some  one  you  know  ?  "  he  echoed.     "  Here  ? " 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"  Some  one  I  know,"  she  repeated,  "  though  I  do  not 
know  her  name.  I  should  like  to  know  it." 

"  Her  name,"  he  said.     "  Then  it  is  a  woman  ?  " 


MI88  FFRENCH  RETURNS.  71 

"  Yes,  a  woman — a  young  woman.  I  saw  her  abroad — 
four — five  times." 

She  began  to  check  off  the  number  of  times  on  her  fin 
gers. 

"  In  Florence  once,"  she  said.  "  In  Munich  twice  ;  in 
Paris — yes,  in  Paris  twice  again." 

"  When  and  how  ?  "  he  asked. 

As  he  spoke,  he  thought  of  the  unruffled  serenity  of  the 
face  he  had  just  seen. 

"  Years  ago,  the  first  time,"  she  answered,  without  the 
least  change  of  tone,  "  in  a  church  in  Florence.  I  went 
in  because  I  was  wet  and  cold  and  hungry,  and  it  was 
light  and  warm  there.  I  was  a  little  thing,  and  left  to 
ramble  in  the  streets.  I  liked  the  streets  better  than  my 
mother's  room.  I  was  standing  in  the  church,  looking  at 
the  people  and  trying  to  feel  warm,  when  a  girl  came  in 
with  a  servant.  She  was  handsome  and  well  dressed,  and 
looked  almost  like  a  woman.  When  she  saw  me,  she 
laughed.  I  was  such  a  little  thing,  and  so  draggled  and 
forlorn.  That  was  why  she  laughed.  The  next  year  I 
saw  her  again,  at  Munich.  Her  room  was  across  the 
street  and  opposite  mine,  and  she  sat  at  the  window,  amus 
ing  herself  by  playing  with  her  dog  and  staring  at  me. 
She  had  forgotten  me,  but  I  had  not  forgotten  her ;  and 
she  laughed  at  me  again.  In  Paris  it  was  the  same  thing. 
Our  windows  were  opposite  each  other  again.  It  was  five 
years  after,  but  that  time  she  knew  me,  though  she  pre 
tended  she  did  not.  She  drove  past  the  house  to-day,  and 
I  saw  her.  I  should  like  to  know  her  name." 

"  I  think  I  can  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  said.  "  She  is  a 
Miss  Ff rench.  Her  father  is  a  Broxton  man.  They  have 
a  place  here." 

"  Have  they  ? "  she  asked.     "  Will  they  live  here  ?  " 


72  "HAWORTH'S." 

"  I  believe  so,"  he  answered. 

She  sat  for  a  moment,  rubbing  her  hand  slowly  as  be 
fore,  and  then  she  spoke. 

"So  much  the  worse,"  she  said, — "  so  much  the  worse 
for  me." 

She  went  up  to  her  room  when  she  left  him.  It  was  a 
little  room  in  the  second  story,  and  she  had  become  fond 
of  it.  She  often  sat  alone  there.  She  had  been  sitting 
at  its  window  when  Rachel  Ffrench  had  driven  by  in  the 
afternoon.  The  window  was  still  open  she  saw  as  she 
entered,  and  a  gust  of  wind  passing  through  it  had  scat 
tered  several  light  articles  about  the  floor.  She  went  to 
pick  them  up.  They  were  principally  loose  papers,  and 
as  she  bent  to  raise  the  first  one  she  discovered  that  it  was 
yellow  with  age  and  covered  with  a  rough  drawing  of 
some  mechanical  appliance.  Another  and  another  pre 
sented  the  same  plan — drawn  again  and  again,  elaborataly 
and  with  great  pains  at  times,  and  then  hastily  as  if  some 
new  thought  had  suggested  itself.  On  several  were  writ 
ten  dates,  and  on  others  a  few  words. 

She  was  endeavoring  to  decipher  some  of  these  faintly 
written  words  when  a  fresh  gust  of  rising  wind  rushed  past 
her  as  she  stood,  and  immediately  there  fell  upon  her  ear  a 
slight  ghostly  rustle.  Near  her  was  a  small  unused  closet 
whose  door  had  been  thrown  open,  and  as  she  turned 
toward  it  there  fluttered  from  one  of  the  shelves  a  sheet 
of  paper  yellower  than  the  rest.  She  picked  it  up  and 
read  the  words  written  upon  the  back  of  the  drawing. 
They  had  been  written  twenty-six  years  before. 

"  To-day  the  child  was  born.  It  is  a  boy.  By  the  time 
he  is  a  year  old  my  work  will  be  done." 

The  girl's  heart  began  to  beat  quickly.  The  papers 
rustled  again,  and  a  kind  of  fear  took  possession  of  her. 


MISS  FFRENCH  RETURNS.  73 

"  He  wrote  it,"  she  said  aloud.  "  The  man  who  is  dead 
— who  is  dead ;  and  it  was  not  finished  at  all." 

She  closed  the  window,  eager  to  shut  out  the  wind ; 
then  she  closed  the  door  and  went  back  to  the  papers. 
Her  fancies  concerning  Stephen  Murdoch  had  taken  very 
definite  shape  from  the  first.  She  knew  two  things  of 
him ;  that  he  had  been  gentle  and  unworldly,  and  that 
he  had  cherished  throughout  his  life  a  hope  which  had 
eluded  him  until  death  had  come  between  him  and  his 
patient  and  unflagging  labor. 

The  sight  of  the  yellow  faded  papers  moved  her  to 
powerful  feeling.  She  had  never  had  a  friend  ;  she  had 
stood  alone  from  her  earliest  childhood,  and  here  was  a 
creature  who  had  been  desolate  too — who  must  have  been 
desolate,  since  he  had  been  impelled  to  write  the  simpl< 
outcome  of  his  thoughts  again  and  again  upon  the  papei 
he  wrought  on,  as  if  no  human  being  had  been  near  t 
hear.  It  was  this  which  touched  her  most  of  all.  Ther , 
was  scarcely  a  sheet  upon  which  some  few  words  wei  j 
not  written.  Each  new  plan  bore  its  date,  and  son  e 
hopeful  or  weary  thought.  He  had  been  tired  often,  frit 
never  faithless  to  his  belief.  The  end  was  never  very  far 
off.  A  few  days,  one  more  touch,  would  bring  it, — and 
then  he  had  forgotten  all  the  past. 

"  I  can  afford  to  forget  it,"  he  said  once.  "  It  only 
seems  strange  now  that  it  should  have  lasted  so  long 
when  so  few  steps  remain  to  be  taken." 

These  words  had  been  written  on  his  leaving  America. 
He  was  ready  for  his  departure.  They  were  the  last 
record.  When  she  had  read  them,  Christian  pushed  the 
papers  away  and  sat  gazing  into  space  with  dilated  eyes. 

"  He   died,"   she   said.     "  He   is   dead.     Nothing   can 
Wing  him  back  ;  and  it  is  forgotten." 
4 


CHAPTEK  XII. 

GRANNY   DIXON. 

THE  next  time  Janey  brought  her  fathers  dinner  to  the 
Yard  she  sought  out  Murdoch  in  a  dejected  mood.  She 
found  him  reading  over  his  lunch  in  the  sunshine,  and 
she  sat  down  opposite  to  him,  folding  her  arms  on  her 
lap. 

"  We're  i'  trouble  again  at  our  house,"  she  said. 
"  We're  allus  i'  trouble.  If  it  is  na  one  thing,  it's  an 
other." 

Murdoch  shut  his  book  and  leaned  back  upon  his  pile 
of  lumber  to  listen.  He  always  listened. 

"  What  is  it  this  time  ?  " 

"  This  toime  ?  "  querulously.  "  This  is  th'  worst  o'  th' 
lot.  Granny  Dixon's  come  back." 

"  Granny  Dixon  ? " 

Janey  shook  her  head. 

"  Tha  knows  nowt  about  her,"  she  said.  "  I  nivver 
towd  thee  nowt.  She's  my  feyther's  grandmother  an' 
she's  ower  ninety  years  owd,  an'  she's  getten  money.  If 
it  wur  na  fur  that  no  one  ud  stond  her,  but" — with  a 
sigh — "  foak  conna  turn  away  brass." 

Having  relieved  herself  of  this  sentiment  she  plunged 
into  the  subject  with  fresh  asperity. 

"  Theer's  no  knowin'  how  to  tak'  her,"  she  said.  "  Yo' 
mun  shout  at  th'  top  o'  yore  voice  to  mak'  her  hear.  An7 


GRANNY  DIXON.  75 

she  wunnot  let  nowt  go  by.  She  mim  hear  aw  as  is  goin'. 
She's  out  wi'  Mester  Hixon  at  th'  chapel  because  she  says 
she  conna  hear  him  an'  he  does  it  a-purpose.  When  she 
wur  out  wi'  ivverybody  else  she  used  to  say  she  wur  goin' 
to  leave  her  brass  to  him,  an'  she  invited  him  to  tea 
ivvery  neet  fur  a  week,  an'  had  him  set  by  her  chair  an' 
talk.  It  wur  summer  toime  an'  I've  seed  him  set  an' 
shout  wi'  th'  sweat  a-pourin'  down  his  face  an'  his  neck 
tie  aw  o'  one  soide,  an'  at  th'  eend  o'  a  week  he  had  a 
quinsy,  as  wur  nigh  bein'  th'  eend  o'  him.  An'  she  nivver 
forgive  him.  She  said  as  he  wur  an  impident  chap  as 
thowt  hissen  too  good  fur  his  betters." 

Murdoch  expressed  his  sympathy  promptly. 

"  I  wish  tha'd  coom  up  an'  talk  to  her  some  day  thysen," 
said  Janey.  "  It  ud  rest  us  a  bit,"  candidly.  "  Yo'n  get- 
ten  th'  kind  o'  voice  to  mak'  folk  hear,  though  yo'  dunnot 
speak  so  loud,  an'  if  yo'  get  close  up  to  her  ear  an'  say 
things  slow,  yo'd  get  used  to  it  i'  toime." 

"  I'll  come  some  day,"  answered  Murdoch,  speculating 
with  some  doubt  as  to  the  possible  result  of  the  visit. 

Her  mind  relieved,  Janey  rose  to  take  her  departure. 
Suddenly,  however,  a  new  idea  presented  itself  to  her 
active  mind. 

"  Has  tha  seen  Miss  Ff rench  yet  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

"  What  does  tha  think  on  her  ? " 

He  picked  up  his  book  and  re-opened  it. 

"  I  only  saw  her  for  an  instant,"  he  said.  "  I  hadn't 
time  to  think  anything." 

On  his  way  from  his  work  a  few  days  later,  he  stopped 
at  the  Briarley  cottage.  It  was  swept  and  garnished  ; 
there  were  no  traces  of  the  children  about.  Before  he 
reached  the  house,  there  had  been  borne  to  him  the  sound 


76  "HAWORTH'8." 

<>f  a  voice  reading  at  its  highest  and  shrillest  pitch,  and 
he  had  recognized  it  as  Janey's. 

As  he  entered,  that  young  person  rose  panting  from  her 
seat,  in  her  eagerness  almost  dropping  the  graphically 
illustrated  paper  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"  Eh ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  thee !  I 
could  na  ha'  stood  it  mich  longer.  She  would  ha'  me  read 
the  *  To-be-continyerd '  one,  an'  I've  bin  at  it  nigh  an 
boor." 

Granny  Dixon  turned  on  her  sharply. 

"  What  art  tha  stoppin'  fur  ? "  she  demanded.  "  What's 
th'  matter  wi'  thee  ?  " 

Murdoch  gave  a  slight  start.  The  sound  was  so  tre 
mendous  that  it  seemed  almost  impossible  that  it  should 
proceed  from  the  small  and  shriveled  figure  in  the  arm 
chair. 

"  What  art  tha  stoppin'  fur  ? "  she  repeated.  "  Get  on 
Wi'  thee." 

Janey  drew  near  and  spoke  in  her  ear. 

"  It's  Mester  Murdoch,"  she  proclaimed ;  "  him  as  I 
towd  yo'  on." 

The  little  bent  figure  turned  slowly  and  Murdoch  felt 
himself  transfixed  by  the  gaze  of  a  pair  of  large  keen 
eyes.  They  had  been  handsome  eyes  half  a  century  be 
fore,  and  the  wrinkled  and  seamed  face  had  had  its  come 
liness  too. 

"  Tha  said  he  wur  a  workin'  mon,"  she  cried,  after  a 
pause.  "  What  did  tha  tell  me  that  theer  fur  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  workin'  mon,"  said  Janey.  "  He's  getten  his 
work-cloas  on  now.  Does  na  tha  see  'em  ?  " 

"  Cloas  ! "  announced  the  Voice  again.  "  Cloas  i'deed  ! 
A  mon  is  na  made  out  o'  cloas.  I've  seed  workin'  men 
afore  i'  my  day,  an'  I  know  'ern." 


GRANNY  DIXON.  77 

Then  she  extended  her  hand,  crooking  the  forefinger 
like  a  claw,  in  a  beckoning  gesture. 

"  Coom  tha  here,"  she  commanded,  "  an  set  thysen  down 
to  talk  to  me." 

She  gave  the  order  in  the  manner  of  a  female  potentate, 
and  Murdoch  obeyed  her  with  a  sense  of  overpowering 
fascination. 

"  Wheer  art  tha  fro'  ?  "  she  demanded. 

He  made  his  reply,  "  From  America,"  as  distinct  as 
possible,  and  was  relieved  to  find  that  it  reached  her  at 
once. 

"  'Merica  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  I've  heerd  o'  'Merica  often 
enow.  That's  wheer  th'  blacks  live,  an'  th'  Indians.  I 
knowed  a  young  chap  as  went  theer,  an'  th'  Indians  scalped 
him.  He  went  theer  because  I  would  na  ha'  him.  It  war 
when  I  wur  a  lass.'5 

She  paused  a  moment  and  then  said  the  last  words  over 
again,  nodding  her  head  with  a  touch  of  grim  satisfac 
tion. 

"  He  went  theer  because  I  would  na  ha'  him.  It  wur 
when  I  wur  a  lass." 

He  was  watching  her  so  intently  that  he  was  quite 
startled  a  second  time  when  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  him 
and  spoke  again,  still  nodding. 

"  I  wur  a  han'some  lass,"  she  said.  "  I  wur  a  han'some 
lass — seventy  year'  ago." 

It  was  quite  plain  that  she  had  been.  The  thing  which 
was  least  pleasant  about  her  now  was  a  certain  dead  and 
withered  suggestion  of  a  beauty  of  a  not  altogether  sinless 
order. 

The  recollection  of  the  fact  seemed  to  enliven  her  so 
far  that  she  was  inspired  to  conducting  the  greater  part  of 
the  conversation  herself.  Her  voice  grew  louder  and 


78  "HAWORTH'S." 

louder,  a  dull  red  began  to  show  itself  on  her  cheeks,  and 
her  eyes  sparkled.  She  had  been  "  a  hau'some  lass,  seventy 
year'  ago,  an'  had  had  her  day — as  theer  wur  dead  folk 
could  tell." 

ri  "  She'll  go  on  i'  that  rood  aw  neet,  if  summat  dunnot 
tak'  her  off  it,"  said  Janey.  "She  loikes  to  talk  about 
that  theer  better  than  owt  else." 

But  something  did  happen  "  to  tak'  her  off  it." 

"Tha'st  getten  some  reason  i'  thee,"  she  announced. 
"  Tha  does  na  oppen  tha  mouth  as  if  tha  wanted  to  swally 
folk  when  tha  says  what  tha'st  getten  to  say.  Theer's  no 
workin'  men's  ways  about  thee — cloas  or  no  cloas." 

"  That's  th'  way  she  goes  on,"  said  Janey.  "  She  canna 
bide  folk  to  look  soft  when  they're  shoutin'  to  her.  That 
was  one  o'  th'  things  she  had  agen  Mester  Hixon.  She 
said  he  getten  so  red  i'  th'  face  it  put  her  out  o'  pa 
tience." 

"I  loike  a  mon  as  is  na  a  foo',"  proclaimed  Granny 
Dixon,  But  there  her  voice  changed  and  grew  sharp  and 
tremulous.  "  Wheer's  that  flower  ? "  she  cried.  "  Who's 
getten  it  ? " 

Janey  turned  toward  the  door  and  uttered  a  shrill  little 
cry  of  excitement. 

"It's  Miss  Ffrench,"  she  said.  "She's — she's  stondin' 
at  th'  door." 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  judge  from  her  ex 
pression  how  long  she  had  been  there.  She  stood  upon 
the  threshold  with  a  faint  smile  on  her  lips,  and  spoke  to 
Janey. 

"  I  want  to  see  your  mother,"  she  said. 

"I'll— I'll  go  and  tell  her,"  the  child  faltered.  "Will 
yo'  coom  in  ? " 

She  hesitated  a  second  and  then  came  in.     Murdoch 


GRANNY  DIXON.  79 

had  arisen.  She  did  not  seem  to  see  him  as  she  passed 
before  him  to  reach  the  chair  in  which  she  sat  down.  In 
fact  she  expressed  scarcely  a  shadow  of  recognition  of  her 
surroundings.  But  upon  Granny  Dixon  liad  fallen  a  sud 
den  feverish  tremor. 

"Who  did  she  say  yo'  wur?"  she  cried.  "I  did  na 
hear  her." 

The  visitor  turned  and  confronted  her. 

"  I  am  Rachel  Ffrench,"  she  answered  in  a  clear,  high 
voice. 

The  dull  red  deepened  upon  the  old  woman's  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  gained  new  fire. 

"  Yo're  a  good  un  to  mak'  a  body  hear,"  she  said.  "  An' 
I  know  yo'." 

Miss  Ffrench  made  no  reply.  She  smiled  incredulously 
at  the  fire. 

The  old  woman  moved  restlessly. 

"Ay,  but  I  do,"  she  cried.  "I  know  yo'.  Yo're 
Ffrench  fro'  head  to  foot.  Wheer  did  yo'  get  that  ? " 

She  was  pointing  to  a  flower  at  Miss  Ffrench's  throat — 
a  white,  strongly  fragrant,  hot  house  flower.  Miss  Ffrench 
cast  a  downward  glance  at  it. 

"  There  are  plenty  to  be  had,"  she  said.  "  I  got  it  from 
home." 

"  I've  seen  'em  before,"  said  Granny  Dixon.  "  He 
used  to  wear  'em  i'  his  button-hole." 

Miss  Ffrench  made  no  reply  and  she  went  on,  her  tones 
increasing  in  volume  w;th  her  excitement. 

"  I'm  talkin'  o'  Will  Ffrench,"  she  said.  "  He  wur  thy 
gran'feyther.  He  wur  dead  afore  yo'  wur  born." 

Miss  Ffrench  seemed  scarcely  interested,  but  Granny 
Dixon  had  not  finished. 


80  "HAWORTH'S." 

"  He  wur  a  bad  un !  "  she  cried.  "  He  wur  a  devil  i 
He  wur  a  devil  out  an'  out.  I  knowed  him  an'  he  knowed 
me." 

Then  she  bent  forward  and  touched  Miss  Ffrench's 
arm. 

"  Theer  wur  na  a  worse  un  nor  a  bigger  devil  nowheer," 
she  said,  "  An'  yo're  th'  very  moral  on  him." 

Miss  Ffrench  got  up  and  turned  toward  the  door  to 
epeak  to  Mrs.  Briarley,  who  that  moment  arrived  in  great 
haste  carrying  the  baby,  out  of  breath,  and  stumbling  in 
her  tremor  at  receiving  gentle  folk  company. 

"  Your  visitor  has  been  talking  to  me,"  she  remarked, 
her  little  smile  showing  itself  again.  "  She  says  my  grand 
father  was  a  devil." 

She  answered  all  Mrs.  Briarley's  terrified  apologies  with 
the  same  little  smile.  She  had  been  passing  by  and  had 
remembered  that  the  housekeeper  needed  assistance  in 
some  matter  and  it  had  occurred  to  her  to  come  in.  That 
was  all,  and  having  explained  herself,  she  went  away  as 
she  had  come. 

"Eh!"  fretted  Mrs.  Briarley,  "to  think  o'  that  theer 
owd  besom  talkin'  i'  that  rood  to  a  lady.  That's  allus  th' 
way  wi'  her.  She'd  rnak'  trouble  anywheer.  She  made 
trouble  enow  when  she  wur  young.  She  wur  na  no  better 
than  she  should  be  then,  an'  she's  nowt  so  mich  better 
now." 

"  What's  that  tha'rt  saying  ? "  demanded  the  Yoice. 
"  A  noice  way  that  wur  fur  a  lady  to  go  out  wi'out  so  mich 
as  sayin'  good-day  to  a  body.  She's  as  loike  him  as  two 
peas — an'  he  wur  a  devil.  Here,"  to  Murdoch,  "  pick  up 
that  theer  flower  she's  dropped." 

Murdoch  turned  to  the  place  she  pointed  out.     The 


GRANNY  DIXON.  81 

white  flower  lay  upon  the  flagged  floor.  He  picked  it  up 
and  handed  it  to  her  with  a  vague  recognition  of  the  pow- 
erfulness  of  its  fragrance.  She  took  it  and  sat  mumbling 
over  it. 

"  It's  th'  very  same,"  she  muttered.  "He  used  to  wear 
'em  i'  his  button-hole  when  he  coom.  An'  she's  th'  very 
moral  on  him." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MR.    FFRENCH   VISITS   THE   WORKS. 

THERE  were  few  men  in  Broxton  or  the  country  sur 
rounding  it  who  were  better  known  than  Gerard  Ffrench. 
In  the  first  place,  he  belonged,  as  it  were,  to  Broxton,  and 
his  family  for  several  generations  back  had  belonged  to 
it.  His  great-grandfather  had  come  to  the  place  a  rich 
man  and  had  built  a  huge  house  outside  the  village,  and 
as  the  village  had  become  a  town  the  Ffrenchs  had  held 
their  heads  high.  They  had  confined  themselves  to  Brox 
ton  until  Gerard  Ffrench  took  his  place.  They  had  spent 
their  lives  there  and  their  money.  Those  who  lived  to  re 
member  the  youth  and  manhood  of  the  present  Ffrench's 
father  had,  like  Granny  Dixon,  their  stories  to  tell.  His 
son,  however,  was  a  man  of  a  different  mold.  There 
were  no  evil  stories  of  him.  He  was  a  well-bred  and 
agreeable  person  and  lived  a  refined  life.  But  he  was  a 
man  with  tastes  which  scarcely  belonged  to  his  degree. 

"  1  ought  to  have  been  born  in  the  lower  classes  and 
have  had  my  way  to  make,"  he  had  been  heard  to  say. 

Unfortunately,  however,  he  had  been  born  a  gentleman 
of  leisure  and  educated  as  one.  But  this  did  not  prevent 
him  from  indulging  in  his  proclivities.  He  had  made 
more  than  one  wild  business  venture  which  had  electri 
fied  his  neighbors.  Once  he  had  been  on  the  verge  of  a 
great  success  and  again  he  had  overstepped  the  verge  of  a 


MR.   FFRENCH  VISITS  THE   WORKS.  S3 

great  loss.     He  had  lost  money,  but  he  had  never  lost 
confidence  in  his  business  ability. 

"  I  have  gained  experience,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  know 
better  next  time." 

His  wife  had  died  early  and  his  daughter  had  spent  her 
girlhood  with  a  relative  abroad.  She  had  developed  into 
beauty  so  faultless  that  it  had  been  said  that  its  order  be 
longed  rather  to  the  world  of  pedestals  and  catalogues 
than  to  ordinary  young  womanhood. 

But  the  truth  was  that  she  was  not  an  ordinary  young 
woman  at  all. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  at  dinner  on  the  evening  of  her 
visit  to  the  Briarley  cottage, — "I  suppose  these  work 
people  are  very  radical  in  their  views." 

"Why?"  asked  her  father. 

"I  went  into  a  cottage  this  afternoon  and  found  a 
young  workman  there  in  his  working  clothes,  and  instead 
of  leaving  the  room  he  remained  in  it  as  if  that  was  the 
most  natural  thing  to  do.  It  struck  me  that  he  must  be 
long  to  the  class  of  people  we  read  of." 

"  I  don't  know  much  of  the  political  state  of  affairs 
now,"  said  Mr.  Ffrench.  "  Some  of  these  fellows  are 
always  bad  enough,  and  this  Haworth  rose  from  the 
ranks.  He  was  a  foundry  lad  himself." 

"  I  met  Mr.  Haworth,  too,"  said  Miss  Ffrench.  "  He 
stopped  in  the  street  to  stand  looking  after  the  carriage. 
He  is  a  very  big  person." 

"  He  is  a  very  successful  fellow,"  with  something  like 
a  sigh.  "  A  man  who  has  made  of  himself  what  he  has 
through  sheer  power  of  will  and  business  capacity  is  a 
genius." 

"What  has  he  made  of  himself?"  inquired  Miss 
Ffrench. 


84  "HAWORTH'B." 

"Well,"  replied  her  father,  "the  man  is  actually  a 
millionaire.  He  is  at  the  head  of  his  branch  of  the 
trade ;  he  leads  the  other  manufacturers ;  he  is  a  kind  of 
king  in  the  place.  People  may  ignore  him  if  they  choose. 
He  does  not  care,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should." 

Mr.  Ffrench  became  rather  excited.  He  flushed  and 
spoke  uneasily. 

"  There  are  plenty  of  gentlemen,"  he  said.  "  We  have 
gentlemen  enough  and  to  spare,  but  we  have  few  men 
who  can  make  a  path  through  the  world  for  themselves  as 
he  has  done.  For  my  part,  I  admire  the  man.  He  lias 
the  kind  of  force  which  moves  me  to  admiration." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Miss  Ffrench,  slowly,  "that  you 
would  have  admired  the  young  workman  I  saw.  It 
struck  me  at  the  time  that  you  would." 

"  By  the  bye,"  her  father  asked  with  a  new  interest, 
"  what  kind  of  a  young  fellow  was  he  ?  Perhaps  it  was 
the  young  fellow  who  is  half  American  and " 

"  He  did  not  look  like  an  Englishman,"  she  interrupted. 
"  He  was  too  dark  and  tall  and  unconscious  of  himself,  in 
spite  of  his  awkwardness.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was 
out  of  place." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  this  Murdoch.  He  is  a  pecu 
liar  fellow,  and  I  am  as  much  interested  in  him  as  in  Ha- 
worth.  His  father  was  a  Lancashire  man, — a  half-crazy 
inventor  who  died  leaving  an  unfinished  model  which  was 
to  have  made  his  fortune.  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  of 
the  son.  1  wish  1  had  seen  him." 

Kachel  Ffrench  made  no  reply.  She  had  heard  this 
kind  of  thing  before.  There  had  been  a  young  man  from 
Cumberland  who  had  been  on  the  point  of  inventing  a 
new  propelling  power,  but  had,  somehow  or  other,  not 
done  it;  there  had  been  a  machinist  from  Manchester 


MR.   F FRENCH   VISITS  THE    WORKS.  85 

\vho  had  created  an  entirely  new  order  of  loom — which 
had  not  worked  ;  and  there  had  been  half  a  dozen  smaller 
lights  whose  inventions,  though  less  involved,  would  still 
have  made  fortunes — if  they  had  been  quite  practical. 
But  Mr.  Ffrench  had  mounted  his  hobby,  which  always 
stood  saddled  and  bridled.  He  talked  of  Ha  worth  and 
Haworth's  success,  the  Works  and  their  machinery.  He 
calculated  the  expenses  and  the  returns  of  the  business. 
He  even  took  out  his  tablets  to  get  at  the  profits  more  ac 
curately,  and  got  down  the  possible  cost  of  various  im 
provements  which  had  suggested  themselves. 

"  He  has  done  so  much,"  he  said,  "  that  it  would  be  easy 
for  him  to  do  more.  He  could  accomplish  anything  if  lie 
were  a  better  educated  man — or  had  an  educated  man  as 
partner.  They  say,"  he  remarked  afterward,  "  that  this 
Murdoch  is  not  an  ignoramus  by  any  means.  I  hear  that 
he  has  a  positive  passion  for  books  and  that  he  has  made 
several  quite  remarkable  improvements  and  additions  to 
the  machinery  at  the  Works.  It  would  be  an  odd  thing,1' 
biting  the  end  of  his  pencil  with  a  thoughtful  air,  "  it 
would  be  a  dramatic  sort  of  thing  if  he  should  make  a 
success  of  the  idea  the  poor  fellow,  his  father,  left  incom 
plete." 

Indeed  Miss  Ffrench  was  quite  prepared  for  his  after- 
statement  that  he  intended  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Works 
and  their  owner  the  next  morning,  though  she  could  not 
altogether  account  for  the  slight  hint  of  secret  embarrass 
ment  which  she  fancied  displayed  itself  when  he  made  the 
announcement. 

"  It's  true  the  man  is  rough  and  high-handed  enough," 
he  said.  "  He  has  not  been  too  civil  in  his  behavior  to  me 
in  times  gone  by,  but  I  should  like  to  know  more  of  him 
in  spite  of  it.  He  is  worth  cultivating." 


86  "HAWORTH'S." 

Tie  appeared  afc  the  Works  the  following  morning, 
awakening  thereby  some  interest  among  the  shrewder 
spirits  who  knew  him  of  old. 

"What's  he  up  to  now?"  they  said  to  each  other. 
"  He's  getten  some  crank  i'  his  yed  or  he  would  na  be 
here." 

Not  being  at  any  time  specially  shrewd  in  the  study  of 
human  nature,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Mr.  Ffrench  was 
not  prepared  for  the  reception  he  met  with  in  the  owner's 
room.  In  his  previous  rare  interviews  with  Jem  Ha  worth 
he  had  been  accorded  but  slight  respect.  His  advances 
had  been  met  in  a  manner  savoring  of  rough  contempt, 
his  ephemeral  hobbies  disposed  of  with  the  amiable  can 
dor  of  the  practical  arid  not  too  polished  mind ;  he  knew 
he  had  been  jeered  at  openly  at  times,  and  now  the  man 
who  had  regarded  him  lightly  and  as  if  he  felt  that  he 
held  the  upper  hand,  received  him  almost  with  a  confused, 
self-conscious  air.  He  even  flushed  when  he  got  up  and 
awkwardly  shook  hands.  "Perhaps,"  said  his  visitor  to 
himself,  "  events  have  taught  him  to  feel  the  lack  in  him 
self  after  all." 

u  I  looked  forward,  before  rny  return,  to  calling  upon 
you,"  he  said  aloud.  "  And  I  am  glad  to  have  the  oppor 
tunity  at  last." 

Haworth  reseated  himself  after  giving  him  a  chair,  and 
answered  with  a  nod  and  a  somewhat  incoherent  wel 
come. 

Ffrench  settled  himself  with  an  agreeable  consciousness 
of  being  less  at  a  loss  before  the  man  than  he  had  ever 
been  in  his  life. 

"  What  I  have  seen  abroad,"  he  said,  "  has  added  to  the 
interest  I  have  always  felt  in  our  own  manufactures.  You 
know  that  is  a  thing  I  have  always  cared  for  most.  Peo- 


MR.   FFRENCH  VISITS  THE   WORKS.  87 

pie  have  called  it  my  hobby,  though  I  don't  think  that  is 
quite  the  right  name  for  it.  You  have  done  a  great  deal 
since  I  went  away." 

"  I  shall  do  more  yet,"  said  Haworth  with  effort,  "  be 
fore  I've  done  with  the  thing." 

"  You've  done  a  good  deal  for  Broxton.  The  place  has 
grown  wonderfully.  Those  cottages  of  yours  are  good 
work." 

Haworth  warmed  up.  His  hand  fell  upon  the  table  be 
fore  him  heavily. 

"  It's  not  Broxton  I'm  aimin'  at,"  he  said.  "  Broxton's 
naught  to  me.  I'll  have  good  work  or  none.  It's  this 
place  here  I'm  at  work  on.  I've  said  I'd  set  i  Haworth's ' 
above  'em  all,  and  I'll  do  it." 

"  You've  done  it  already,"  answered  Ffrench. 

"  Ay,  but  I  tell  you  I'll  set  it  higher  yet.  I've  got  the 
money  and  I've  got  the  will.  There's  none  on  'em  can 
back  down  Jem  Haworth  " 

"  No,"  said  Ffrench,  suddenly  and  unaccountably  con 
scious  of  a  weakness  in  himself  and  his  position.  He  did 
not  quite  understand  the  man.  His  heat  was  a  little  con 
fusing. 

"  This,"  he  decided  mentally,  "  is  his  hobby." 

He  sat  and  listened  with  real  excitement  as  Haworth 
launched  out  more  freely  and  with  a  stronger  touch  of 
braggadocio. 

He  had  set  out  in  his  own  line  and  he  meant  to  follow 
it  in  spite  of  all  the  gentlemen  manufacturers  in  England. 
He  had  asked  help  from  none  of  them,  and  they  had 
given  him  none.  He'd  brought  up  the  trade  and  he'd 
made  money.  There  wasn't  a  bigger  place  in  the  coun 
try  than  "  Haworth's,"  nor  a  place  that  did  the  work  it 
did.  He'd  have  naught  cheap  and  he'd  have  no  fancy 


88  "HAWORT&S." 

prices.  The  chaps  that  worked  for  him  knew  their  busi 
ness  and  knew  they'd  lose  naught  by  sticking  to  it.  They 
knew,  too,  they'd  got  a  master  who  looked  sharp  after  'em 
and  stood  no  cheek  nor  no  slack  dodges. 

"I've  got  the  best  lot  in  the  trade  under  me,"  he  said. 
"  I've  got  a  young  chap  in  the  engine-room  as  knows 
more  about  machinery  than  half  the  top-sawyers  in  Eng 
land.  By  George !  I  wish  I  knew  as  much.  He's  a 
quiet  chap  and  he's  young ;  but  if  he  knew  how  to  look  a 
bit  sharper  after  himself,  he'd  make  his  fortune.  The 
trouble  is  he's  too  quiet  and  a  bit  too  much  of  a  gentle 
man  without  knowing  it.  By  George !  he  is  a  gentle 
man,  if  he  is  naught  but  Jem  Haworth's  engineer." 

"  He  is  proud  of  the  fellow,"  thought  Ffrench.  "  Proud 
of  him,  because  he  is  a  gentleman." 

"He  knows  what's  worth  knowing,"  Haworth  went  on. 
"  And  he  keeps  it  to  himself  till  the  time  comes  to  use  it. 
He's  a  chap  that  keeps  his  mouth  shut.  He  conies  up  to 
my  house  and  reads  my  books.  I've  not  been  brought 
up  to  books  myself,  but  there's  none  of  'em  he  can't 
tackle.  He's  welcome  to  use  aught  I've  got.  I'm  not 
such  a  fool  as  to  grudge  him  what  all  my  brass  won't  buy 
me." 

"I  think  I've  heard  of  him,"  said  Ffrench.  "You 
mean  Murdoch." 

"  Ay,"  Haworth  answered,  "  I  mean  Murdoch ;  and 
there's  not  many  chaps  like  him.  He's  the  only  one  of 
the  sort  I  ever  run  up  against." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  Ffrench.  "My 
daughter  saw  him  yesterday  in  one  of  the  workmen's  cot 
tages  and,"  with  a  faint  smile,  "  he  struck  her  as  having 
rather  the  air  of  a  radical.  It  was  one  of  her  feminine 
fancies." 


MR.   FFRENCH  VISITS  THE   WORKS.  89 

There  was  a  moment's  halt  and  then  Haworth  made 
hie  reply  as  forcibly  as  ever. 

"  Radical  be  hanged,"  he  said.  "  He's  got  work  o'  his 
own  to  attend  to.  He's  one  of  the  kind  as  leaves  th'  radi 
cals  alone.  He's  a  straightforward  chap  that  cares  more 
for  his  books  than  aught  else.  I  won't  say,"  a  trifle 
grudgingly,  "  that  he's  not  a  bit  too  straight  in  some 
things." 

There  was  a  halt  again  here  which  Ffrench  rather  won 
dered  at;  then  Haworth  spoke  again,  bluntly  and  yet 
lagging  a  little. 

"  I — I  saw  her,  Miss  Ffrench,  myself  yesterday.  I  was 
walking  down  the  street  when  her  carriage  passed." 

Ffrench  looked  at  him  with  an  inward  start.  It  was 
his  turn  to  flush  now. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  she  mentioned  it  to  me." 

He  appeared  a  trifle  pre-occupied  for  some  minutes 
afterward,  and  when  he  roused  himself  laughed  and 
spoke  nervously.  The  color  did  not  die  out  of  his  face 
during  the  remainder  of  his  visit ;  even  after  he  had 
made  the  tour  of  the  Works  and  looked  at  the  machinery 
and  given  a  good  deal  of  information  concerning  the 
mariner  in  which  things  were  done  on  the  Continent,  it 
was  still  there  and  perhaps  it  deepened  slightly  as  he 
spoke  his  parting  words. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  I — we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  at  dinner  to-morrow  evening  ? " 

"  Yes,"  Haworth  answered,  "  I'll  be  there." 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

NEARLY   AN    ACCIDENT. 

IT  was  Rachel  Ffrench  who  received  her  father's  guest 
the  following  evening.  Mr.  Ffrench  had  been  delayed 
in  his  return  from  town  and  was  still  in  his  dressing- 
room.  Accordingly  when  Haworth  was  announced,  the 
doors  of  the  drawing-room  being  flung  open  revealed  to 
him  the  figure  of  his  host's  daughter  alone. 

The  room  was  long  and  stately,  and  after  she  had  risen 
from  her  seat  it  took  Miss  Ffrench  some  little  time  to 
make  her  way  from  one  end  to  the  other.  Haworth  had 
unconsciously  halted  after  crossing  the  threshold,  and  it 
was  not  until  she  was  half-way  down  the  room  that  he 
bestirred  himself  to  advance  to  meet  her.  He  did  not 
know  why  he  had  paused  at  first,  and  his  sudden  knowl 
edge  that  he  had  done  so  roused  him  to  a  momentary  sav 
age  anger. 

"Dang  it!  "he  said  to  himself.  "Why  did  I  stand 
there  like  a  fool?" 

The  reason  could  not  be  explained  briefly.  His  own 
house  was  a  far  more  splendid  affair  than  Ffrench's,  and 
ainono^  his  visitors  from  London  and  Manchester  there 

D 

were  costumes  far  more  gorgeous  than  that  of  Miss 
Ffrench.  He  was  used  to  the  flash  of  jewels  and  the 
gloss  of  brilliant  colors.  Miss  Ffrench  wore  no  orna 
ments  at  all,  and  her  dark  purple  dress  was  simple  and 
close-clinging. 


NEARLY  AN  ACCIDENT.  91 

A  couple  of  paces  from  him  she  stopped  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"  My  father  will  be  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "  He 
was,  unfortunately,  detained  this  evening  by  business. 
He  will  be  down  stairs  in  a  few  moments." 

His  sense  of  being  at  a  disadvantage  when,  after  she 
had  led  him  back  to  the  fire,  they  were  seated,  was  over 
whelming.  A  great  heat  rushed  over  him  ;  the  hush  of  the 
room,  broken  only  by  the  light  ticking  of  the  clock,  was 
misery.  His  eye  traveled  stealthily  from  the  hem  of  her 
dark  purple  gown  to  the  crowning  waves  of  her  fair  hair, 
but  he  had  not  a  word  to  utter.  It  made  him  feel  almost 
brutal. 

"  But  the  day'll  come  yet"  he  protested  inwardly,  feel 
ing  his  weakness  as  he  thought  it, '"when  I'll  hold  my 
own.  I've  done  it  before,  and  I'll  do  it  again." 

Miss  Ffrench  regarded  him  with  a  clear  and  direct 
gaze.  She  did  not  look  away  from  him  at  all ;  she  was 
not  in  the  least  embarrassed,  and  though  she  did  not 
smile,  the  calmness  of  her  face  was  quite  as  perfect  in 
expression. 

"  My  father  told  me  of  his  visit  to  your  place,"  she 
said.  "  He  interested  me  very  much.  I  should  like  to 
see  the  Works,  if  you  admit  visitors.  I  know  nothing  of 
such  things." 

"  Any  time  you  choose  to  come,"  he  answered,  "  I'll 
show  you  round — and  be  glad  to  do  it.  It's  a  pretty  big 
place  of  the  kind." 

He  was  glad  she  had  chosen  this  subject.  If  she  would 
only  go  on,  it  would  not  be  so  bad.  He  would  be  in  his 
own  groove.  And  she  did  go  on. 

"  I've  seen  very  little  of  Broxton,"  she  proceeded.  "  I 
spent  a  few  weeks  here  before  going  abroad  again  with 


94:  "HAWORT&8." 

and  the  promptness  with  which  his  commands  were  obeyed 
did  not  displease  her. 

"  He  is  master,"  she  said  to  herself. 

She  was  fond  of  power  and  liked  the  evidence  of  it  in 
others.  She  did  not  object  to  the  looks  the  men,  who 
were  at  work,  cast  upon  her  as  she  went  from  one  depart 
ment  to  another.  Her  beauty  had  never  yet  failed  to 
command  masculine  homage  from  all  ranks.  The  great 
black  fellows  at  the  furnaces  exchanged  comments  as  she 
passed.  They  would  have  paused  in  their  work  to  look 
at  her  if  they  had  dared.  The  object  of  'their  admira 
tion  bore  it  calmly;  it  neither  confounded  nor  touched 
her ;  it  did  not  move  her  at  all. 

Mr.  Ffrench  commented,  examined  and  explained  with 
delightful  eloquence. 

"  We  are  fortunate  in  timing  our  visit  so  well,"  he  said 
to  his  daughter.  "  They  are  filling  an  immense  order  for 
the  most  important  railroad  in  the  country.  On  my  honor, 
I  would  rather  be  at  the  head  of  such  a  gigantic  establish 
ment  than  sit  on  the  throne  of  England !  But  where  is 
this  protege  of.  yours?"  he  said  to  Haworth  at  last.  "I 
should  like  above  all  things  to  see  him." 

"  Murdoch  ? "  answered  Haworth.  "  Oh,  we're  coming 
to  Mm  after  a  bit.  He's  in  among  the  engines." 

When  they  reached  the  engine-rooms  Haworth  presented 
him  with  little  ceremony,  and  explained  the  purpose  of 
their  visit.  They  wanted  to  see  the  engines  and  he  was 
the  man  to  make  the  most  of  them. 

Mr.  Ffrench's  interest  was  awakened  readily.  The 
mechanic  from  Cumberland  had  been  a  pretentious  ignor 
amus  ;  the  young  man  from  Manchester  had  dropped  his 
aspirates  and  worn  loud  plaids  and  flaming  neck-ties,  but 
this  was  a  less  objectionable  form  of  genius. 


NEARLY  AN  ACCIDENT.  95 

Mr.  Ffrench  began  to  ask  questions  and  make  himself 
agreeable,  and  in  a  short  time  was  very  well  entertained 
indeed. 

Miss  Ffrench  listened  with  but  slight  demonstrations 
of  interest.  She  did  not  understand  the  conversation 
which  was  being  carried  on  between  her  father  and  Mur 
doch,  and  she  made  no  pretense  of  doing  so. 

"  It  is  all  very  clear  to  them"  she  said  to  Haworth  as 
they  stood  near  each  other. 

"  It's  all  clear  enough  to  him,"  said  Haworth,  signify 
ing  Murdoch  with  a  gesture. 

Upon  which  Miss  Ffrench  smiled  a  little.  She  was 
not  sensitive  upon  the  subject  of  her  father's  hobbies,  and 
the  coarse  frankness  of  the  remark  amused  her. 

But  notwithstanding  her  lack  of  interest  she  drew 
nearer  to  the  engine  finally  and  stood  looking  at  it,  feel 
ing  at  once  fascinated  and  unpleasantly  overpowered  by 
its  heavy,  invariable  motion. 

It  was  as  she  stood  in  this  way  a  little  later  that  Mur 
doch's  glance  fell  upon  her.  The  next  instant,  with  the 
simultaneous  cry  of  terror  which  broke  from  the  others, 
he  had  thrown  himself  forward  and  dragged  her  back  by 
main  force,  and  among  the  thunderous  wheels  and  rods 
and  shafts  there  was  slowly  twisted  and  torn  and  ground 
into  shreds  a  fragment  of  the  delicate  fabric  of  her  dress. 
It  was  scarcely  the  work  of  a  second.  Her  father  stag 
gered  toward  them  white  and  trembling. 

"Good  God!"  he  cried.  "Good  God!  What " 

the  words  died  upon  his  bloodless  lips. 

She  freed  herself  from  Murdoch's  grasp  and  stood  up 
right.  She  did  not  look  at  him  at  all,  she  looked  at  her 
father  and  lightly  brushed  with  her  hand  her  sleeve  at 
the  wrist.  Despite  her  pallor  it  was  difficult  to  realize 


92  "  HAWORTH' S." 

my  father,  and  I  cannot  say  I  have  been  very  fond  of  it. 
I  do  not  like  England,  and  on  the  Continent  one  hears 
unpleasant  things  of  English  manufacturing  towns.  I 
think,"  smiling  a  little  for  the  first  time,  "  that  one  always 
associates  them  with  c  strikes '  and  squalid  people." 

"  There  is  not  much  danger  of  strikes  here,"  he  replied. 
"  I  give  my  chaps  fair  play  and  let  'em  know  who's 
master." 

"  But  they  have  radical  clubs,"  she  said,  "  and  talk  poli 
tics  and  get  angry  when  they  are  not  sober.  I've  heard 
that  much  already." 

"  They  don't  talk  'em  in  my  place,"  he  answered,  dog 
matically. 

He  was  not  quite  sure  whether  it  relieved  him  or  not 
when  Ffrench  entered  at  this  moment  and  interrupted 
them.  He  was  more  at  his  ease  with  Ffrench,  and  yet  he 
felt  himself  at  a  disadvantage  still.  He  scarcely  knew 
how  the  night  passed.  A  feverish  unrest  was  upon  him. 
Sometimes  he  hardly  heard  what  his  entertainer  said,  and 
Mr.  Ffrench  was  in  one  of  his  most  voluble  and  diffuse 
moods.  He  displayed  his  knowledge  of  trade  and  me 
chanics  with  gentlemanly  ostentation;  he  talked  of 
"  Trades'  Unions  "  and  the  master's  difficulties ;  he  in 
troduced  manufacturer's  politics  and  expatiated  on  Con 
tinental  weaknesses.  He  weighed  the  question  of  demand 
and  supply  and  touched  on  "  protective  tariff." 

"  Blast  him,"  said  Haworth,  growing  bitter  mentally, 
"  he  thinks  I'm  up  to  naught  else,  and  he's  right." 

As  her  father  talked  Miss  Ffrench  joined  in  but  seldom. 
She  listened  and  looked  on  in  a  manner  of  which  Haworth 
was  conscious  from  first  to  last.  The  thought  made  its 
way  into  his  mind,  finally,  that  she  looked  on  as  if  these 
matters  did  not  touch  her  at  all  and  she  was  only  faintly 


NEARLY  AN  ACCIDENT.  93 

curious  about  them.  Her  eyes  rested  on  him  with  a  secret 
air  of  watchful  interest ;  he  met  them  more  than  once  as 
he  looked  up  and  she  did  not  turn  them  awa}7.  He  sat 
through  it  all,  full  of  vengeful  resentment,  and  was  at 
once  wretched  and  happy,  in  spite  of  it  and  himself. 

When,  at  her  father's  request,  she  played  and  sang,  he 
sat  apart  moody  and  yet  full  of  clumsy  rapture.  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  music,  but  his  passion  found  a  tongue 
in  it,  nevertheless.  If  she  had  played  badly  he  would 
have  taken  the  lack  of  harmony  for  granted,  but  as  she 
played  well  he  experienced  a  pleasure,  while  he  did  not 
comprehend. 

"When  it  was  all  over  and  he  found  himself  out  alone  in 
the  road  in  the  dark,  he  was  feverish  still. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  have  made  naught  at  th'  first  sight," 
he  said.  Then  he  added  with  dogged  exultation,  "But 
I  don't  look  for  smooth  sailing.  I  know  enough  for 
that.  I've  seen  her  and  been  nigh  her,  and  that's  worth 
setting  down — with  a  chap  like  me." 

At  the  end  of  the  week  a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  gate 
way  of  the  Works,  and  Mr.  Ffrench  and  his  daughter  de 
scended  from  it.  Mr.  Ffrench  was  in  the  best  of  humors ; 
he  was  in  his  element  as  he  expatiated  upon  the  size  and 
appointments  of  the  place.  He  had  been  expatiating  upon 
them  during  the  whole  of  the  drive. 

On  their  being  joined  by  Haworth  himself,  Miss  Ffrench 
decided  inwardly  that  here  upon  his  own  domain  he  was 
not  so  wholly  objectionable  as  she  had  fancied  at  first — 
even  that  he  was  deserving  of  a  certain  degree  of  approval. 
Despite  the  signs  of  elated  excitement,  her  quick  eye  de 
tected  at  once  that  he  was  more  at  his  ease.  His  big 
frame  did  not  look  out  of  place  ;  he  moved  as  if  he  was 
at  home,  and  upon  the  whole  his  rough  air  of  authority 


96  "HAWORTH'S." 

that  she  only  held  herself  erect  by  a  terrible  effort  of  self- 
control. 

"  Why  " — she  said — "  why  did  he  touch  me — in  that 
manner  ? " 

Haworth  uttered  a  smothered  oath;  Murdoch  turned 
about  and  strode  out  of  the  room.  He  did  not  care  to 
remain  to  hear  the  explanation. 

As  he  went  out  into  the  open  air  a  fellow-workman, 
passing  by,  stopped  to  stare  at  him. 

"  What's  up  wi'  thee  ? "  he  asked.  "  Has  tha  been  pun- 
sin  Haworth  o'er  again  ? "  The  incident  referred  to 
being  always  remembered  as  a  savory  and  delectable 
piece  of  humor. 

Murdoch  turned  to  him  with  a  dazed  look. 

"  T —  "  he  stammered.  "  We — have  very  nearly  had 
an  accident."  And  went  on  his  way  without  further  ex 
planation. 


CHAPTER  XY. 


EXCITING  events  were  not  so  common  in  Broxton  and 
its  vicinity  that  this  one  could  remain  in  the  background. 
It  furnished  a  topic  of  conversation  for  the  dinner  and 
tea-tables  of  every  family  within  ten  miles  of  the  place. 
On  Murdoch's  next  visit  to  the  Briarleys',  Granny  Dixon 
insisted  on  having  the  matter  explained  for  the  fortieth 
time  and  was  manifestly  disgusted  by  the  lack  of  dram 
atic  incident  connected  with  it. 

"  Tha  seed  her  dress  catch  i'  th'  wheel  an'  dragged  her 
back,"  she  shouted.  "  Was  na  theer  nowt  else  ?  Did  na 
she  swound  away,  nor  nothin'  ? " 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  She  did  not  know  what  had 
happened  at  first." 

Granny  Dixon  gave  him  a  shrewd  glance  of  examina 
tion,  and  then  favored  him  with  a  confidential  remark, 
presented  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

"  I  conna  bide  her,"  she  said. 

"What  did  Mr.  Ffrench  say  to  thee?"  asked  Janey. 
"  Does  tha  think  he'll  gie  thee  owt  fur  it  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Murdoch.     "  He  won't  do  that." 

"  He  owt  to,"  said  Janey  fretfully.     "  An'  tha  owt  to 
tak'  it,  if  he  does.     Tha  does  na  think  enow  o'  money  an' 
th'  loike.     Yo'll  nivver  get  on  i'   th'  world  if  yo'  mak' 
light  o'  money  an'  let  it  slip  by  yo'," 
5 


98  "HAWORTW8" 

Floxham  had  told  the  story  somewhat  surlily  to  his 
friends,  and  his  friends  had  retailed  it  over  their  beer, 
and  the  particulars  had  thus  become  common  property. 

"  What  did  she  say  ? "  Floxham  had  remarked  at  the 
first  relation.  "  She  said  nowt,  that's  what  she  said. 
She  did  na  quoite  mak'  th'  thing  out  at  first,  an'  she  stood 
theer  brushin'  th'  black  off  her  sleeve.  Happen,"  sardon 
ically,  "  she  did  ua  loike  th'  notion  o'  a  working  chap 
catchin'  howd  on  her  wi'out  apologizin'." 

Haworth  asked  Murdoch  to  spend  an  evening  with  him, 
and  sat  moody  and  silent  through  the  greater  part  of  it. 
At  last  he  said : 

"  You  think  you've  been  devilish  badly  treated,"  he 
said.  "  But,  by  the  Lord !  I  wish  I  was  in  your  place." 

"  You  wish,"  repeated  Murdoch,  "  that  you  were  in  my 
place  ?  I  don't  know  that  it's  a  particularly  pleasant  place 
to  be  in." 

Haworth  leaned  forward  upon  the  table  and  stared 
across  at  him  gloomily. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  You  know  naught  about  her. 
She's  hard  to  get  at ;  but  she'll  remember  what's  happened ; 
cool  as  she  took  it,  she'll  remember  it." 

"  I  don't  want  her  to  remember  it,"  returned  Murdoch. 
"Why  should  it  matter?  It's  a  thing  of  yesterday.  It 
was  nothing  but  chance.  Let  it  go." 

u  Confound  it !  "  said  Haworth,  with  a  restive  morose- 
ness.  "  I  tell  you  I  wish  I'd  been  in  your  place — at  twice 
the  risk." 

The  same  day  Mr.  Ffrench  had  made  a  visit  to  the 
Works  for  the  purpose  of  setting  his  mind  at  rest  and 
expressing  his  gratitude  in  a  graceful  manner.  In  fact 
he  was  rather  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  present  himself 
upon  the  ground  so  soon  again.  But  on  confronting  the 


"IT  WOULD  BE  A  GOOD  THING."  99 

hero  of  the  hour,  he  found  that  somehow  the  affair  dwin 
dled  and  assumed  an  altogether  incidental  and  unheroic 
aspect.  His  rather  high-flown  phrases  modified  themselves 
and  took  a  different  tone. 

"  He  is  either  very  reserved  or  very  shy,"  he  said  after 
ward  to  his  daughter.  "  It  is  not  easy  to  reach  him  at  the 
outset.  There  seems  a  lack  of  enthusiasm  about  him,  so 
to  speak." 

"  Will  he  come  to  the  house  ? "  asked  Miss  Ff  rench. 

"  Oh  yes.  I  suppose  he  will  come,  but  it  was  very  plain 
that  he  would  rather  have  stayed  away.  He  had  too 
much  good  taste  to  refuse  point-blank  to  let  you  speak  to 
him." 

"  Good  taste !  "  repeated  Miss  Ffrench. 

Her  father  turned  upon  her  with  manifest  irritation. 

"  Good  taste ! "  he  repeated  petulantly.  "  Cannot  you 
see  that  the  poor  fellow  is  a  gentleman?  I  wish  you 
would  show  less  of  this  nonsensical  caste  prejudice,  Ra 
chel." 

"  I  suppose  one  necessarily  dispenses  with  a  good  deal 
of  it  in  a  place  like  this,"  she  answered.  "In  making 
friends  with  Mr.  Ha  worth,  for  instance 

Mr.  Ffrench  drew  nearer  to  her  and  rested  his  elbow 
upon  the  mantel  with  rather  an  embarrassed  expression. 

"  I  wish  you  to — to  behave  well  to  Haworth,"  he  said 
faltering.  "I — a  great  deal  may — may  depend  upon 
it." 

She  looked  up  at  him  at  once,  lifting  her  e}Tes  in  a  se 
rene  glance. 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  into  the  iron  trade  ? "  she  asked  re 
lentlessly. 

He  blushed  scarlet,  but  she  did  not  move  her  eyes  from 
his  face  on  that  account. 


100  "  HA  WORTH'S." 

"  What — what  Haworth  needs,"  he  stammered,  "  is  a — 
a  man  of  education  to — to  assist  him.  A  man  who  had 
studied  the  scientific  features  of — of  things,  might  suggest 
valuable  ideas  to  him.  There  is  an — an  immense  field 
open  to  a  rich,  enterprising  fellow  such  as  he  is — a  man 
who  is  fearless  and — and  who  has  the  means  to  carry  out 
his  ventures." 

u  You  mean  a  man  who  will  try  to  do  new  things,"  she 
remarked.  "  Do  you  think  he  would  ? " 

"  The  trouble  has  been,"  floundering  more  hopelessly 
than  ever, "  that  his  lack  of  cultivation  has — well,  has  forced 
him  to  act  in  a  single  groove.  If — if  he  had  a — a  partner 
who — knew  the  ropes,  so  to  speak — his  business  would  be 
doubled — trebled." 

She  repeated  aloud  one  of  his  words. 

"  A  partner,"  she  said. 

He  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair  and  stared  at  her, 
wishing  that  he  could  think  of  something  decided  to  say. 

"  Does  he  know  you  would  like  to  be  his  partner  ? "  she 
asked  next. 

"  N— no,"  he  faltered,  "  not  exactly." 

She  sat  a  moment  looking  at  the  fire. 

"I  do  not  believe  he  would  do  it,"  she  said  at  last. 
"He  is  too  proud  of  having  done  everything  single- 
handed." 

Then  she  looked  at  her  father  again. 

"  If  he  would,"  she  said,  u  and  there  were  no  rash  ven 
tures  made,  it  would  be  a  good  thing." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  A   POOR   CHAP   AS   IS   ALLUS   I5   TROUBLE." 

"  IT  was  nothing  but  a  chance,  after  all,"  Murdoch  said 
to  Miss  Ffrench,  just  as  he  had  said  to  Haworth.  "  It 
happened  that  I  was  the  first  to  see  the  danger." 

She  stood  opposite  to  him  upon  the  hearth  in  her  fa 
ther's  house.  Neither  of  them  had  sat  down.  She  rested 
her  arm  upon  the  low  mantel  and  played  with  a  flower 
she  held  in  her  hand.  She  looked  at  the  flower  as  she 
made  the  reply. 

"You  think  of  it  very  lightly,"  she  said  with  rather 
cold  deliberateness.  He  did  not  regard  her  furtively  as 
Haworth  had  done.  Raising  her  eyes  suddenly,  after  she 
had  said  this,  she  met  his,  which  were  fixed  upon  her. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Not  lightly  at  all.  It  was  a 
horrible  thing.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

She  shuddered. 

"  Nor  I,"  she  said. 

Then  she  added,  rather  in  the  tone  of  one  reluctantly 
making  a  confession : 

"  I  have  not  slept  easily  through  one  night  since." 

"  That  is  very  natural,"  he  returned ;  "  but  the  feeling 
will  wear  away." 

He  would  have  left  her  then,  but  she  stopped  him  with 
a  gesture. 


102-  "HAWORTWS." 

"'Wait  -a<-  moment,'.'  she  said.  "There  is  something 
else." 

He  paused  as  she  bade  him.  A  slight  color  rose  to  her 
cheek. 

"  When  I  spoke,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not  understand  at  all 
what  had  happened — not  at  all.  I  was  stunned  and  an 
gry.  I  thought  that  if  I  was  too  near  yon,  you  might 
have  spoken  instead  of  doing  as  you  did."  Then  with 
studied  coldness  and  meeting  his  gaze  fully,  "  It  would 
have  been  a  vile  thing  to  have  said — if  I  had  under 
stood." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  It  would  have  been  a  vile  thing, 
if  you  had  understood ;  but  you  did  not,  and  I  realized 
that  when  I  had  time  to  think  over  it  coolly." 

"Then  at  first,"  she  put  it  to  him,  "it  made  you 
angry  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  had  run  some  risk,  you  know,  and  had  had 
the  luck  to  save  your  life." 

The  interview  ended  here,  and  it  was  some  time  before 
they  met  again. 

But  Murdoch  heard  of  her  often ;  so  often  indeed  that 
she  was  kept  pretty  constantly  before  him.  He  heard  of 
her  from  Ha  worth,  from  the  Briarleys,  from  numberless 
sources  indeed. 

It  became  her  caprice  to  make  a  kind  of  study  of  the 
people  around  her  and  to  find  entertainment  in  it.  When 
she  drove  through  the  streets  of  the  little  town,  past  the 
workmen's  cottages,  and  the  Works  themselves,  she  was 
stared  at  and  commented  upon.  Her  beauty,  her  dress, 
her  manners  roused  the  beholders  either  to  lavish  or 
grudging  acknowledgment.  Dirty  children  sometimes 
followed  her  carriage,  and  on  its  stopping  at  any  point  a 
small  crowd  gathered  about  it. 


"A  POOR  CHAP  AS  18  ALLUS  P  TROUBLE."       103 

"  She's  been  here  again,"  shouted  Granny  Dixon  one 
evening  as  Murdoch  took  a  seat  near  her  chair. 

"  Who  \ "  he  asked. 

"  Her.  That  lass  o'  Ff rench's — th'  one  I  conna  bide. 
She  mak's  out  she's  ta'en  a  fancy  to  our  Janey.  I  dun- 
not  believe  her,"  at  a  louder  pitch  and  with  vigorous  nods. 

"  Tha  nasty  tempert  owd  body ! "  cried  Mrs.  Briarley 
sotto  voce.  "  Get  out  wi'  thee ! " 

"  What  art  tha  sayin'  ? "  demanded  her  guest.  "  Dun- 
not  tell  me  tha  wur  sayin'  nowt.  I  saw  thee." 

"  I — I  wur  sayin'  it  wur  a  bad  day  fur  th'  wash,"  fal 
tered  the  criminal,  "an'  fur  them  as  had  rheumatiz. 
How's — how's  thine,  Misses?" 

"  Tha'rt  tellin'  a  lee,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "  Tha  wert 
sayin'  summat  ill  o'  me.  I  caught  thee  at  it." 

Then  going  back  to  the  subject  and  turning  to  Mur 
doch: 

"  I  dunnot  believe  her !  She  cares  nowt  fur  nowt  at 
th'  top  o'  th'  earth  but  hersen.  She  set  here  to-day  get- 
tin'  em  to  mak'  foo's  o'  theersens  because  it  happen't  to 
suit  her.  She's  getten  nowt  better  to  do  an'  she  wants  to 
pass  th'  toime — if  theer's  nowt  else  at  th'  back  on  it. 
She's  Will  Ffrench  ower  again.  She  conna  mak'  a  foo' 
o'  me." 

"  He  made  foo'  enow  o'  thee  i'  his  day,"  commented 
Mrs.  Briarley,  cautiously. 

Granny  Dixon  favored  her  with  a  sharper  glance  than 
before. 

"  Tha'rt  sayin'  summat  ill  again,"  she  cried.  "  Howd 
thy  tongue!" 

"  Eh ! "  whimpered  the  poor  -  woman.  "  A  body  dare 
na  say  theer  soul's  theer  own  when  hoo's  about — hoo's  that 
sharp  an'  ill -f arrant." 


104  "IIAWORTH'S." 

A  few  minutes  after,  Briarley  came  in.  Janej  piloted 
him  and  he  entered  with  a  smile  at  once  apologetic  and 
encouraging. 

"  He  wur  theer,"  said  Janey.  "  But  he  had  na  had 
newt" 

Briarley  sidled  forward  and  seated  himself  upon  the 
edge  of  a  chair  ;  his  smile  broadened  steadily,  but  he  was 
in  a  tremendous  minority.  Granny  Dixon  transfixed  him 
with  her  baleful  eye,  and  under  its  influence  the  smile 
was  graduated  from  exhilarated  friendliness  to  gravity, 
from  gravity  to  gentle  melancholy,  from  melancholy  to 
deepest  gloom.  But  at  this  stage  a  happy  thought  struck 
him  and  he  beamed  again. 

"  How — how  art  tha  doin',  Misses  ? "  he  quavered.  "  I 
hope  tha'rt  makin'  thysen  comfortable." 

The  reception  this  polite  anxiety  met  with  was  not  en 
couraging.  Granny  Dixon's  eye  assumed  an  expression 
still  more  baleful. 

"  Tha'st  been  at  it  again,"  she  shouted.  "  Tha'st  been 
at  it  again.  Tha'll  neer  git  none  o'  my  brass  to  spend  at 
th'  ale-house.  Mak'  sure  o'  that." 

Mr.  Briarley  turned  his  attention  to  the  fire  again. 
Melancholy  was  upon  the  point  of  marking  him  for 
her  own,  when  the  most  delicate  of  tact  came  to  his  res 
cue. 

"  It  is  na  thy  brass  we  want,  Misses,"  he  proclaimed. 
"  It's — it's  thy  comp'ny."  And  then  clenched  the  matter 
by  adding  still  more  feebly,  "  Ay,  to  be  sure  it's  thy  com 
p'ny,  is  na  it,  Sararann  ? " 

"  Ay,"  faltered  Mrs.  Briarley,  "  to  be  sure." 

"  It's  nowt  o'  th'  soart,"  answered  Granny  Dixon,  in  the 
tone  of  the  last  trump.  "  An'  duimot  yo'  threep  me  down 
as  it  is." 


"A  POOR  CHAP  AS  IS  ALLUS  P  TROUBLE."      105 

Mr.  Briarley 's  countenance  fell.  Mrs.  Briarley  shed  a 
few  natural  tears  under  cover  of  the  baby ;  discretion  and 
delicacy  forbade  either  to  retort.  Their  venerable  guest 
having  badgered  them  into  submission  glared  at  the  fire 
with  the  air  of  one  who  detected  its  feeble  cunning  and 
defied  it. 

It  was  Mr.  Briarley  who  first  attempted  to  recover 
cheerfulness. 

"  Tha'st  had  quality  to  see  thee,  Sararann,"  he  ventured. 
"  Our  Jane  towd  me.'7 

"  Ay,"  answered  Mrs.  Briarley,  tearfully. 

Mr.  Briarley  fell  into  indiscreet  reverie. 

"The  chap  as  gets  her,"  he  said,  "'11  get  a  han'some 
lass.  I  would  na  moind,"  modestly,  "  I  would  na  moind 
bein'  i'  his  shoes  mysen." 

Mrs.  Briarley 's  smothered  wrongs  broke  forth. 

"  Thee !  "  she  cried  out.  "  Tha  brazant  nowt !  I  won 
der  tha'rt  na  sham't  o'  thy  face — talkin'  i'  that  rood  about 
a  lady,  an'  afore  thy  own  wife!  I  wonder  tha  art  na 
sham't." 

Mr.  Briarley's  courage  forsook  him.  He  sought  refuge 
in  submissive  penitence  almost  lachrymose. 

"  I  did  na  mean  nowt,  Sararann,"  he  protested  meekly. 
"  It  wur  a  slip  o'  th'  tongue,  lass.  I'm — I'm  not  th'  build 
as  a  young  woman  o'  that  soart  ud  be  loike  to  tak'  up 


wi'." 


"  Yo'  wur  good  enow  fur  me  onct,"  replied  Mrs.  Briar- 
ley,  sharply.  "  A  noice  un  yo'  are  settin'  yore  wedded  wife 
below  other  people — as  if  she  wur  dirt." 

"  Ay,  Sararann,"  the  criminal  faltered,  "  I  wur  good 
enow  fur  yo'  but — but — yo " 

But  at  this  point  he  dropped  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
shaking  it  in  mournful  contrition. 
5* 


106  "HAWORT&8." 

"  I'm  a  poor  chap,"  he  said.  "  I'm  nowt  but  a  poor  chap 
as  is  all  us  i'  trouble.  I'm  not  th'  man  yo'  ought  to  ha' 
had,  Sararann." 

"  Nay,"  retorted  Mrs.  Briarley.  "  That  tha'rt  not,  an' 
it's  a  pity  tha  did  na  foind  that  theer  out  thirteen  year 
ago." 

Mr.  Briarley  shook  his  head  with  a  still  deeper  depres 
sion." 

"  Ay,  Sararann,"  he  answered,  "  seems  loike  it  is." 

He  did  not  recover  himself  until  Murdoch  took  his  de 
parture,  and  then  he  followed  him  deprecatingly  to  the 
door. 

"  Does  tha  think,"  he  asked,  "  as  that  theer's  true  ? " 

"That  what  is  true?" 

"  That  theer  th'  chaps  has  been  talkin'  ower." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Murdoch,  "  what  they  have 
been  talking  over." 

"  They're  gettin'  it  goin'  among  'em  as  Haworth's  goin' 
to  tak'  Ffreuch  in  partner." 

Murdoch  looked  up  the  road  for  a  few  seconds  before 
he  replied.  He  was  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  past 
week. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  true,"  he  said,  after  this  pause. 
"I  don't  think  it  can  be.  Haworth  is  not  the  man  to  do 
it." 

But  the  idea  was  such  a  startling  one,  presented  in  this 
form,  that  it  gave  him  a  kind  of  shock ;  and  as  he  went 
on  his  way  naturally  thinking  over  the  matter,  he  derived 
some  consolation  from  repeating  aloud  his  last  words : 

"  No,  it  is  not  likely.  Haworth  is  not  the  man  to  do 
it." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A   FLOWER. 

BUT  at  last  it  was  evident  that  the  acquaintance  be 
tween  Ha  worth  and  Ffrench  had  advanced  with  great  rap 
idity.  Ffrench  appeared  at  the  Works,  on  an  average, 
three  or  four  times  a  week,  and  it  had  become  a  common 
affair  for  Haworth  to  spend  an  evening  with  him  and  his 
daughter.  He  was  more  comfortable  in  his  position  of 
guest  in  these  days.  Custom  had  given  him  greater  ease 
and  self -possession.  After  two  visits  he  had  begun  to  give 
himself  up  to  the  feverish  enjoyment  of  the  hour.  His 
glances  were  no  longer  furtive  and  embarrassed.  At  times 
he  reached  a  desperate  boldness. 

"There's  something  about  her,"  he  said  to  Murdoch, 
"  that  draws  a  fellow  on  and  holds  him  off  both  at  the 
same  time.  Sometimes  I  nigh  lose  my  head  when  I'm 
with  her." 

He  was  moody  and  resentful  at  times,  but  he  went 
again  and  again,  and  held  his  own  after  a  manner.  On 
the  occasion  of  the  first  dinner  Mr.  Ffrench  gave  to  his 
old  friends,  no  small  excitement  was  created  by  Ha  worth's 
presence  among  the  guests.  The  first  man  who,  entering 
the  room  with  his  wife  and  daughters,  caught  sight  of  his 
brawny  frame  and  rather  dogged  face,  faltered  and  grew 
nervous,  and  would  have  turned  back  if  he  had  possessed 
the  courage  to  be  the  first  to  protest.  Everybody  else 


108  "HAWORTH'S." 

lacked  the  same  courage,  it  appeared,  for  nobody  did  pro 
test  openly,  though  there  were  comments  enough  made  in 
private,  and  as  much  coldness  of  manner  as  good  breeding 
would  allow. 

Miss  Ffrench  herself  was  neither  depressed  nor  ill  at 
ease.  It  was  reluctantly  admitted  that  she  had  never  ap 
peared  to  a  greater  advantage  nor  in  better  spirits. 

Before  the  evening  was  half  over  it  was  evident  to  all 
that  she  was  not  resenting  the  presence  of  her  father's 
new  found  friend.  She  listened  to  his  attempts  at  con 
versation  with  an  attentive  and  suave  little  smile.  If  she 
was  amusing  herself  at  his  expense,  she  was  at  the  same 
time  amusing  herself  at  the  expense  of  those  who  looked 
on,  and  was  delicately  defying  their  opinion. 

Jem  Haworth  went  home  that  night  excited  and  exult 
ant.  He  lay  awake  through  the  night,  and  went  down  to 
the  Works  early. 

"  1  didn't  get  the  worst  of  it,  after  all,"  he  said  to  Mur 
doch.  "Let  'em  grin  and  sert  if  they  will — i  them  laughs 
that  wins.'  She — she  never  was  as  handsome  in  her  life 
as  she  was  last  night,  and  she  never  treated  me  as  well. 
She  never  says  much.  She  only  lets  a  fellow  come  nigh 
and  talk  ;  but  she  treated  me  well — in  her  way." 

"  I'm  going  to  send  for  my  mother,"  he  said  afterward, 
somewhat  shamefacedly.  "  I'm  goin'  to  begin  a  straight 
life  ;  I  want  naught  to  stand  agin  me.  And  if  she's  here 
they'll  come  to  see  her.  I  want  all  the  chances  I  can 
get" 

He  wrote  the  letter  to  his  mother  the  same  day. 

"  The  old  lady  will  be  glad  enough  to  come,"  he  said, 
when  he  had  finished  it.  "  The  finery  about  her  will 
trouble  her  a  bit  at  first,  but  she'll  get  over  it." 

His  day's  work  over,  Murdoch  did  not  return  home  at 


A  FLOWER.  109 

once.  His  restless  habit  of  taking  long  rambles  across 
the  country  had  asserted  itself  with  unusual  strength,  of 
late.  He  spent  little  time  in  the  house.  To-night  he 
was  later  than  usual.  He  came  in  fagged  and  mud- 
splashed.  Christian  was  leaving  the  room  as  he  entered 
it,  but  she  stopped  with  her  hand  upon  the  door. 

"  We  have  had  visitors,"  she  said. 

"Who?  "he  asked. 

"  Mr.  Ffrench  and  his  daughter.  Mr.  Ffrench  wanted 
to  see  you.  She  did  not  come  in,  but  sat  in  the  carriage 
outside." 

She  shut  the  door  and  came  back  to  the  hearth. 

"  She  despises  us  all ! "  she  said.     "  She  despises  us  all !  " 

He  had  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  lay  back,  clasp 
ing  his  hands  behind  his  head  and  looking  gloomily  be 
fore  him. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  she  does,"  hs  said.  "  But  what  of 
that?" 

She  answered  without  looking  at  him. 

"  To  be  sure,"  she  said.     "  What  of  that  ? " 

After  a  little  she  spoke  again. 

"  There  is  something  I  have  thought  of  saying  to  you," 
she  said.  "  It  is  this.  I  am  happier  here  than  I  ever 
was  before." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  he  answered. 

"  I  never  thought  of  being  happy,"  she  went  on,  "  or 
like  other  women  in  anything.  I — I  was  different." 

She  said  the  words  with  perfect  coldness. 

"  I  was  different." 

"  Different ! "  he  echoed  absently,  and  then  checked 
himself.  "Don't  say  that,"  he  said.  "Don't  think  it. 
It  won't  do.  Why  shouldn't  you  be  as  good  and  happy 
as  any  woman  who  ever  lived  ?  " 


110  "HAWORT&S.'* 

She  remained  silent.  But  her  silence  only  stirred  him 
afresh. 

"  It  is  a  bad  beginning,"  he  said.  "  I  know  it  is  because 
I  have  tried  it.  I  have  said  to  myself  that  I  was  different 
from  other  men,  too." 

He  ended  with  an  impatient  movement  and  a  sound 
half  like  a  groan. 

"  Here  1  am,"  he  cried,  "  telling  myself  it  is  better  to 
battle  against  the  strongest  feeling  of  my  life  because  I 
am  *  different ' — because  there  is  a  kind  of  taint  in  my 
blood.  I  don't  begin  as  other  men  do  by  hoping.  I  be 
gin  by  despairing,  and  yet  I  can't  give  up.  How  it  will 
end,  God  knows ! " 

"  1  understand  you  better  than  you  think,"  she  said. 

Something  in  her  voice  startled  him. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  Has  my  mother " 

He  stopped  and  gazed  at  her,  wondering.  Some 
powerful  emotion  he  could  not  comprehend  expressed  it 
self  in  her  face. 

"  She  does  not  speak  of  it  often,"  she  said.  "  She 
thinks  of  it  always." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  I  know  that.  She  is  afraid. 
She  is  haunted  by  her  dread  of  it — and,"  his  voice  drop 
ping,  "  so  am  I." 

He  felt  it  almost  unnatural  that  he  should  speak  so 
freely.  He  had  found  it  rather  difficult  to  accustom  him 
self  to  her  presence  in  the  house,  sometimes  he  had  even 
been  repelled  by  it,  and  yet,  just  at  this  moment,  he  felt 
somehow  as  if  they  stood  upon  the  same  platform  and 
were  near  each  other. 

"  It  will  break  loose  some  day,"  he  cried.  "  And  the 
day  is  not  far  off.  I  shall  run  the  risk  and  either  win  or 
lose.  I  fight  hard  for  every  day  of  dull  quiet  I  gain. 


A  FLOWER.  Ill 

When  I  look  back  over  the  past  I  feel  that  perhaps  I  am 
holding  a  chained  devil ;  but  when  I  look  forward  I  for 
get,  and  doubt  seems  folly." 

"  In  your  place,"  she  said,  "  I  would  risk  my  life  upon 
it!" 

The  passion  in  her  voice  amazed  him.  He  compre 
hended  even  less  clearly  than  before. 

"  /  know  what  it  has  cost,"  she  said.  "No  one  better. 
I  am  afraid  to  pass  the  door  of  the  room  where  it  lies,  in 
the  dark.  It  is  like  a  dead  thing,  always  there.  Some 
times  I  fancy  it  is  not  alone  and  that  the  door  might  open 
and  show  me  some  one  with  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  said.  "  You  speak  as 
if » 

"  You  would  not  understand  if  I  should  tell  you,"  she 
answered  a  little  bitterly.  "  We  are  not  very  good  friends 
— perhaps  we  never  shall  be — but  I  will  tell  you  this 
again,  that  in  your  place  I  would  never  give  it  up — 
never !  I  would  be  true  to  him,  if  all  the  world  were 
against  me ! " 

She  went  away  and  shortly  afterward  he  left  the  room 
himself,  intending  to  go  upstairs. 

As  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  staircase,  a  light  from 
above  fell  upon  his  face  and  caused  him  to  raise  it.  The 
narrow  passage  itself  was  dark,  but  on  the  topmost  stair 
his  mother  stood  holding  a  lamp  whose  light  struck  upon 
him.  She  did  not  advance,  but  waited  as  he  came  up 
ward,  looking  down  at  him,  not  speaking.  Then  they 
passed  each  other,  going  their  separate  ways. 

The  next  day  Ffrench  appeared  in  the  engine-room 
itself.  He  had  come  to  see  Murdoch,  and  having  seen 
him  went  away  in  most  excellent  humor. 


112  "HAWORT&S." 

"  What's  he  after  ? "  inquired  Floxham,  when  he  was 
gone. 

"  He  wants  me  at  his  house,"  said  Murdoch.  "  He 
says  he  needs  my  opinion  in  some  matter." 

He  went  to  the  house  the  same  evening,  and  gave  his 
opinion  upon  the  matter  in  question,  and  upon  several 
others  also.  In  fact,  Mr.  Ffrench  took  possession  of  him 
as  he  had  taken  possession  of  the  young  man  from  Man 
chester,  and  the  Cumberland  mechanic,  though  in  this 
case  he  had  different  metal  to  work  upon.  He  was  amia 
ble,  generous  and  talkative.  He  exhibited  his  minerals, 
his  plans  for  improved  factories  and  workmen's  dwelling- 
houses,  his  little  collection  of  models  which  had  proved 
impracticable,  and  his  books  on  mechanics  and  manufac 
tures.  He  was  as  generous  as  Haworth  himself  in  the 
matter  of  his  library  ;  it  was  at  his  visitor's  service  when 
ever  he  chose. 

As  they  talked  Rachel  Ffrench  remained  in  the  room. 
During  the  evening  she  went  to  the  piano  and  sitting 
down  played  and  sung  softly  as  if  for  no  other  ears  than 
her  own.  Once,  on  her  father's  leaving  the  room,  she 
turned  and  spoke  to  Murdoch. 

"  You  were  right  in  saying  I  should  outlive  my  terror 
of  what  happened  to  me,"  she  said.  "  It  has  almost  en 
tirely  worn  away." 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  answered. 

She  held  in  her  belt  a  flower  like  the  one  which  had 
attracted  Granny  Dixon's  attention.  As  she  crossed  the 
room  shortly  afterward  it  fell  upon  the  floor.  She  picked 
it  up  but,  instead  of  replacing  it,  laid  it  carelessly  upon 
the  table  at  Murdoch's  side. 

After  he  had  risen  from  his  chair,  when  on  the  point 
of  leaving,  he  stood  near  this  table  and  almost  uncon- 


A  FLOWER  113 

sciously  took  the  flower  up,  and  when  he  went  out  of  the 
house  he  held  it  in.  his  fingers. 

The  night  was  dark  and  his  mood  was  preoccupied. 
He  scarcely  thought  of  the  path  before  him  at  all,  and  on 
passing  through  the  gate  he  came,  without  any  warning, 
upon  a  figure  standing  before  it.  He  drew  back  and 
would  have  spoken  had  he  been  given  the  time. 

"  Hush,"  said  Haworth's  voice.     "  It's  me,  lad." 

u  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  asked  Murdoch.  "  Are 
you  going  in  ?  " 

"  No,"  surlily,  "  I'm  not." 

Murdoch  said  no  more.  Haworth  turned  with  him  and 
strode  along  by  his  side.  But  he  got  over  his  ill-temper 
sufficiently  to  speak  after  a  few  minutes. 

"  It's  the  old  tale,"  he  said.  "  I'm  making  a  fool  of 
myself.  I  can't  keep  away.  I  was  there  last  night,  and 
to-night  the  fit  came  upon  me  so  strong  that  I  was  bound 
to  go.  But  when  I  got  there  I'd  had  time  to  think  it 
over  and  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  go  in.  I  knew 
I'd  better  give  her  a  rest.  What  did  Ffrench  want  of 
you  ? » 

Murdoch  explained. 

"  Did  you  see— her  ? " 

«  Yes." 

"  Well,"  restlessly,  "  have  you  naught  to  say  about 
her?" 

"  No,"  coldly.  "  What  should  I  have  to  say  of  her  ? 
It's  no  business  of  mine  to  talk  her  over." 

"  You'd  talk  her  over  if  you  were  in  my  p?ace,"  said 
Haworth.  "  You'd  be  glad  enow  to  do  it.  You'd  think 
of  her  night  and  day,  and  grow  hot  and  cold  at  the 
thought  of  her.  You — you  don't  know  her  as  I  do — if 
you  did " 


114:  "  HAWORTH' S." 

They  had  reached  the  turn  of  the  lane,  and  the  light  of 
the  lamp  which  stood  there  fell  upon  them.  Haworth 
broke  off  his  words  and  stopped  under  the  blaze.  Mur 
doch  saw  his  face  darken  with  bitter  passion. 

"  Curse  you  !  "  he  said.     "  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

Without  comprehending  him  Murdoch  looked  down 
at  his  own  hand  at  which  the  man  was  pointing,  and  saw 
in  it  the  flower  he  had  forgotten  he  held. 

"  This  ?  "  he  said,  and  though  he  did  not  know  why,  the 
blood  leaped  to  his  face. 

"  Ay,"  said  Haworth.  "  You  know  well  enow  what  I 
mean.  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know 
the  look  on  it  ? " 

"  You  may,  or  you  may  not,"  answered  Murdoch. 
"  That  is  nothing  to  me.  I  took  it  up  without  thinking 
of  it.  If  I  had  thought  of  it  I  should  have  left  it  where 
it  was.  I  have  no  right  to  it — nor  you  either." 

Haworth  drew  near  to  him. 

"  Give  it  here !  "  he  demanded,  hoarsely. 

They  stood  and  looked  each  other  in  the  eye.  Exter 
nally  Murdoch  was  the  calmer  of  the  two,  but  he  held  in 
check  a  fiercer  heat  than  he  had  felt  for  many  a  day. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  Not  I.  Think  over  what  you 
are  doing.  You  will  not  like  to  remember  it  to-morrow. 
It  is  not  mine  to  give  nor  yours  to  take.  I  have  done  with 
my  share  of  it — there  it  is."  And  he  crushed  it  in  his 
hand,  and  flung  it,  exhaling  its  fragrance,  upon  the  ground ; 
then  turned  and  went  his  way.  He  had  not  intended 
to  glance  backward,  but  he  was  not  as  strong  as  he 
thought.  He  did  look  backward  before  he  had  gone  ten 
yards,  and  doing  so  saw  Haworth  bending  down  and 
gathering  the  bruised  petals  from  the  earth. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"HAWOKTH  &  co." 

THE  next  day,  when  he  descended  from  his  gig  at  the 
gates,  instead  of  going  to  his  office,  Haworth  went  to  the 
engine-room. 

"  Leave  your  work  a  bit  and  come  into  my  place,"  he 
said  to  Murdoch.  "  I  want  you." 

His  tone  was  off-hand  but  not  ill-humored.  There  was 
a  hint  of  embarrassment  in  it.  Murdoch  followed  him 
without  any  words.  Having  led  the  way  into  his  office, 
Haworth  shut  the  door  and  faced  him. 

"  Can  tha  guess  what  I  want?  "  he  demanded. 

"No,"  Murdoch  answered. 

"  Well,  it's  easy  told.  You  said  I'd  be  cooler  to-day, 
and  I  am.  A  night  gives  a  man  time  to  face  a  thing 
straight.  I'd  been  making  a  fool  of  myself  before  you 
came  up,  but  I  made  a  bigger  fool  of  myself  afterward. 
There's  the  end  on  it." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Murdoch,  "  that  it  was  natural 
enough  you  should  look  at  the  thing  differently  just  then. 
Perhaps  I  made  a  fool  of  myself  too." 

You ! "    said    Haworth,    roughly.     "  You   were   cool 


u 


Later  Ffrench  came  in,  and  spent  an  hour  with  him, 
and  after  his  departure  Haworth  made  the  rounds  of  the 
place  in  one  of  the  worst  of  his  moods. 


116  "  HAWOfiTH'S." 

"  Aye,"  said  Floxham  to  his  companion,  "  that's  allus 
th'  road  when  he  shows  hissen." 

The  same  day  Janey  Briarley  presented  herself  to  Mr. 
French's  housekeeper,  with  a  message  from  her  mother. 
Having  delivered  the  message,  she  was  on  her  way  from 
the  housekeeper's  room,  when  Miss  Ffrench,  who  sat  in 
the  drawing-room,  spoke  through  the  open  door  to  the 
servant. 

"  If  that  is  the  child,"  she  said,  "  bring  her  here  to  me." 

Janey  entered  the  great  room,  awe-stricken  and  over 
powered  by  its  grandeur.  Miss  Ffrench,  who  sat  near  the 
fire,  addressed  her,  turning  her  head  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Come  here,"  she  commanded. 

Janey  advanced  with  something  approaching  tremor. 
Miss  Ffrench  was  awe-inspiring  anywhere,  but  Miss 
Ffrench  amid  the  marvels  of  her  own  drawing-room,  lean 
ing  back  in  her  chair  and  regarding  her  confusion  with  a 
suggestion  of  friendly  notice,  was  terrible. 

*'  Sit  down,"  she  said,  "  and  talk  to  me." 

But  here  the  practical  mind  rebelled  and  asserted  itself, 
in  spite  of  abasement  of  spirit. 

"  I  haven't  getten  nowt  to  talk  about,"  said  Janey,  stoutly. 
"  What  mun  I  say  3" 

"  Anything  you  like,"  responded  Miss  Ffrench.  "  I  am 
not  particular.  There's  a  chair." 

Janey  seated  herself  in  it.  It  was  a  large  one,  in  which 
her  small  form  was  lost.  Her  parcel  was  a  big  one,  but 
Miss  .Ffrench  did  not  tell  her  to  put  it  down,  so  she  held 
it  on  her  knee  and  was  almost  hidden  behind  it,  present 
ing  somewhat  the  appearance  of  a  huge  newspaper  pack 
age,  clasped  by  arms  and  surmounted  by  a  small,  sharp 
face  and  an  immense  bonnet,  with  a  curious  appendage  of 
short  legs  and  big  shoes. 


"  HA  WORTH  &  (70."  117 

"  1  dunnot  see,"  the  girl  was  saying  mentally,  and  with 
some  distaste  for  her  position,  "  what  she  wants  wi' 
me." 

But  as  she  stared  over  the  top  of  her  parcel,  she  gradu 
ally  softened.  The  child  found  Miss  Ffrench  well  worth 
looking  at. 

"  Eh  !  "  she  announced,  with  admiring  candor.  "  Eh  ! 
but  tha  art  han'some !  " 

"  Am  I  ?  "  said  Kachel  Ffrench.     "  Thank  you." 

"  Aye,"  answered  Janey,  "  tha  art.  I  nivver  seed  no 
lady  loike  thee  afore,  let  alone  a  young  woman.  I've  said 
so  rnony  a  toime  to  Mester  Murdoch." 

"  Have  you  ? " 

"  Aye,  I'm  allus  talkin'  to  him  about  thee." 

"  That's  kind,"  said  Kachel  Ffrench.  "  I  dare  say  he 
enjoys  it.  Who  is  he  ? " 

"  Him  !  "  exclaimed  Janey.  "  Dost  na  tha  know  him  \ 
Him  as  was  at  our  house  th'  day  yo'  coom  th'  first  toime. 
Him  as  dragged  thee  out  o'  th'  engine." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Miss  Ffrench,  "  the  engineer." 

"  Aye,"  in  a  tone  of  some  discomfiture.  "  He's  a  en 
gineer,  but  he  is  na  th'  common  workin'  soart.  Granny 
Dixon  says  he's  getten  gentlefolks'  ways." 

"  I  should  think,"  remarked  Miss  Ffrench,  "  that  Mrs. 
Dixon  knew." 

"  Aye,  she's  used  to  gentlefolk.  They've  takken  notice 
on  her  i'  her  young  days.  She  kiiowed  thy  grandfeyther." 

"  She  gave  me  to  understand  as  much,"  responded  Miss 
Ffrench,  smiling  at  the  recollection  this  brought  to  her 
mind. 

"  Yo'  see  mother  an'  me  thinks  a  deal  o*  Mester  Mur 
doch,  because  he  is  na  one  o'  th'  drinkin'  soart,"  proceeded 
Janey.  "  He's  th'  steady  koind  as  is  fond  o'  books  an'  thT 


118  "HAWORTH'S." 

loike.  He  does  na  mak'  much  at  his  trade,  but  he  knows 
more  than  yo'd  think  for,  to  look  at  him." 

"  That  is  good  news,"  said  Miss  Ffrench,  cheerfully. 

Janey  rested  her  chin  upon  her  parcel,  warming  to  the 
subject. 

"  I  should  na  wonder  if  he  getten  to  be  a  rich  men  some 
o'  these  days,"  she  went  on.  "  He's  getten  th'  makin's  on 
it  in  him,  if  he  has  th'  luck  an'  looks  sharp  about  him.  I 
often  tell  him  he  mun  look  sharp." 

She  became  so  communicative  indeed,  that  Miss  Ffrench 
found  herself  well  entertained.  She  heard  the  details  of 
Haworth's  history,  the  reports  of  his  prosperity  and  grow 
ing  wealth,  the  comments  his  hands  had  made  upon  her 
self,  and  much  interesting  news  concerning  the  religious 
condition  of  Broxton  and  "  th'  chapel." 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  the  interview  ended,  and 
when  she  went  away  Janey  carried  an  additional  bundle. 

"  Does  tha  allus  dress  i'  this  road  ? "  she  had  asked  her 
hostess,  and  the  question  suggested  to  Miss  Ffrench  a 
whimsical  idea.  She  took  the  child  upstairs  and  gave  her 
maid  orders  to  produce  all  the  cast-off  finery  she  could 
find,  and  then  stood  by  and  looked  on  as  Janey  made  her 
choice. 

"  She  stood  theer  laughin'  while  I  picked  th'  things 
out,"  said  Janey  afterward.  "  I  dunnot  know  what  she 
wur  laughin'  at.  Yo'  nivver  know  whether  she's  makin' 
game  on  you  or  not." 

"  I  dunnot  see  as  theer  wur  owt  to  laugh  at,"  said  Mrs. 
Briarley,  indignantly. 

"  Nay,"  said  Janey,  "  nor  me  neyther,  but  she  does  na 
laugh  when  theer's  owt  to  laugh  at — that's  th'  queer  part 
o'  it.  She  eaid  as  I  could  ha'  more  things  when  I  coorn 
again  I  would  na  go  if  it  wur  ua  fur  that." 


u  HA  WORTH  &  CO"  119 

Even  his  hands  found  out  at  this  time  that  Haworth  was 
ill  at  ease.  His  worst  side  showed  itself  in  his  intercourse 
with  them.  He  was  overbearing  and  difficult  to  please. 
He  found  fault  and  lost  his  temper  over  trifles,  and  showed 
a  restless,  angry  desire  to  assert  himself. 

"  I'll  show  you  who's  master  here,  my  lads,"  he  would 
say.  "  I'll  ha'  no  dodges.  It's  Haworth  that's  th'  head  o' 
this  concern.  Whoever  comes  in  or  out,  this  here's  (  Ha- 
worth's.'  Clap  that  i'  your  pipes  and  smoke  it." 

"  Summat's  up,"  said  Floxham.  "  Summat's  up.  Mark 
yo'  that." 

Murdoch  looked  on  with  no  inconsiderable  anxiety. 
The  intercourse  between  himself  and  Haworth  had  been 
broken  in  upon.  It  had  received  its  first  check  months 
before,  and  in  these  days  neither  was  in  the  exact  mood 
for  a  renewal  of  it.  Haworth  wore  a  forbidding  air.  His 
rough  good-fellowship  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  He  made 
no  more  boisterous  jokes,  no  more  loud  boasts.  At  times 
his  silence  was  almost  morose.  He  was  not  over  civil  even 
to  Ffrench,  who  came  oftener  than  ever,  and  whose  manner 
was  cheerful  to  buoyancy. 

Matters  had  remained  in  this  condition  for  a  couple  of 
months,  when,  on  his  way  home  late  one  night,  Murdoch's 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  light  burning  in  the  room  used 
by  the  master  of  the  Works  as  his  office. 

He  stopped  in  the  road  to  look  up  at  it.  He  could 
scarcely,  at  first,  believe  the  evidence  of  his  senses.  The 
place  had  been  closed  and  locked  hours  before,  when 
Haworth  had  left  it  with  Ffrench,  with  whom  he  was  to 
dine.  It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  certainly  an  unlawful 
hour  for  such  a  light  to  show  itself,  but  there  it  burned 
steadily  amid  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  likely  that  those  who  had  reason  to 


120  "HAWOBTH'S." 

conceal  themselves  would  set  a  light  blazing,"  Murdoch 
thought.  "  But  if  there's  mischief  at  work  there's  no 
time  to  waste." 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  he  did  it,  making 
the  best  of  his  way  to  the  spot. 

The  gate  was  thrown  open,  and  the  door  of  entrance 
yielded  to  his  hand.  Inside,  the  darkness  was  profound, 
but  when  he  found  the  passage  leading  to  Haworth's  room 
he  saw  that  the  door  was  ajar  and  that  the  light  still 
burned.  On  reaching  this  door  he  stopped  short.  There 
was  no  need  to  go  in.  It  was  Haworth  himself  who  was 
in  the  room — Haworth,  who  lay  with  arms  folded  on  the 
table,  and  his  head  resting  upon  them. 

Murdoch  turned  away,  and  as  he  did  so  the  man  heard 
him  for  the  first  time.  He  lifted  his  head  and  looked 
round. 

"  Who's  there  1 "  he  demanded. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  Murdoch  pushed  the  door 
open  and  stood  before  him. 

"  Murdoch,"  he  said.  "  I  saw  the  light,  and  it  brought 
me  up." 

Haworth  gave  him  a  grudging  look. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  want  me  ? "  Murdoch  asked. 

"  Aye,"  he  answered,  dully,  "  1  think  I  do." 

Murdoch  stood  and  looked  at  him.  He  did  not  sit  down. 
A  mysterious  sense  of  embarrassment  held  him  in 
check. 

"  What  is  wrong  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  lowered  voice.  He 
hardly  knew  it  for  his  own. 

" Wrong?"  echoed  Haworth.  "Naught.  I've— been 
taking  leave  of  the  place.  That's  all." 

"  You  have  been  doing  what  f  "  said  Murdoch. 


"HAWORTH&  CO."  121 

"Taking  leave  of  the  place.     I've  given  it  up." 

His  visitor  uttered  a  passionate  ejaculation. 

"  You  are  mad  !  "  he  said. 

"  Aye,"  bitterly.     "  Mad  enow," 

The  next  instant  a  strange  sound  burst  from  him, — a 
terrible  sound,  forced  back  at  its  birth.  His  struggle  to 
suppress  it  shook  him  from  head  to  foot ;  his  hands 
clinched  themselves  as  if  each  were  a  vise.  Murdoch 
turned  aside. 

When  it  was  over,  and  the  man  raised  his  face,  he 
was  trembling  still,  and  white  with  a  kind  of  raging 
shame. 

"  Blast  you !  "  he  cried,  "  if  there's  ever  aught  in  your 
face  that  minds  me  .o'  this,  I'll — I'll  kill  you  !  " 

This  Murdoch  did  not  answer  at  all.  There  was  enough 
to  say. 

"You  are  going  to  share  it  with  Ffrench?"  he 
said. 

"  Aye,  with  that  fool.  He's  been  at  me  from  the  start. 
Naught  would  do  him  but  he  must  have  his  try  at  it.  Let 
him.  He  shall  play  second  fiddle,  by  the  Lord  Harry  ! " 

He  began  plucking  at  some  torn  scraps  of  paper,  and 
did  not  let  them  rest  while  he  spoke. 

"  I've  been  over  th'  place  from  top  to  bottom,"  he  said. 
"  I  held  out  until  to-night.  To-night  I  give  in,  and  as 
soon  as  I  left  'em  I  came  here.  Ten  minutes  after  it  was 
done  I'd  have  undone  it  if  I  could — I'd  have  undone  it. 
But  it's  done,  and  there's  an  end  on  it." 

He  threw  the  scraps  of  paper  aside  and  clenched  hia 
hand,  speaking  through  his  teeth. 

"  She's  never  given  me  a  word  to  hang  on,"  he  said, 
"and  I've  done  it  for  her.  I've  give  up  what  I  worked 
for  and  boasted  on,  just  to  be  brought  nigher  to  her.  She 
6 


122  "HAWORTH'8." 

knows  I've   done   it, — she  knows  it,  though  she's  never 

owned  it  by  a  look, — and  I'll  make  that  enough." 

"  If  you  make   your   way   with   her,"  said   Murdoch, 

"  you  have  earned  all  you  won." 

"  Aye,"  was  the  grim  answer.     "  I've  earned  it." 

And  soon  after  the  light  in  the  window  went  out,  and 

they  parted  outside  and  went  their  separate  ways  in  the 

dark. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AN   UNEXPECTED   GUEST. 

BEFORE  the  week's  end,  all  Broxton  had  heard  the  news. 
In  the  Works,  before  and  after  working  hours,  groups  gath 
ered  together  to  talk  it  over.  Haworth  was  going  to  '  tak' 
Ffrench  in  partner.'  It  was  hard  to  believe  it,  and  the 
general  opinion  expressed  was  neither  favorable  nor  com 
plimentary.  "Haworth  and  Ffrench  !  "  said  Floxham,  in 
sarcastic  mood.  "  Haworth  and  Co., — an'  a  noice  chap 
Co.  is  to  ha'  i'  a  place.  We'n  ha'  patent  silver-mounted 
back-action  puddlin' -rakes  afore  long,  lads,  if  Co.  gets  his 
way." 

Upon  the  occasion  of  the  installation  of  the  new  part 
ner,  however,  there  was  a  natural  tendency  to  conviviality. 
Not  that  the  ceremony  in  question  was  attended  with  any 
special  manifestation  on  the  part  of  the  individuals  most 
concerned.  Ffrench's  appearance  at  the  Works  was  its 
chief  feature,  but,  the  day's  labor  being  at  an  end,  several 
gentlemen  engaged  in  the  various  departments  scorning 
to  neglect  an  opportunity,  retired  to  the  "  Who'd  'a' 
Thowt  it,"  and  promptly  rendered  themselves  insensible 
through  the  medium  of  beer,  assisted  by  patriotic  and 
somewhat  involved  speeches. 

Mr.  Briarley,  returning  to  the  bosom  of  his  family  at  a 
late  hour,  sat  down  by  his  fireside  and  wept  copiously. 

"  I'm  a  poor  chap,  Sararann,"  he  remarked.     "  I  shall 


124  "HAWORTH'8." 

ne'er  get  took  in  partner  by  nobody.  I'm  not  i'  luck  loike 
some — an'  I  nivver  wur,  'ceptin'  when  I  getten  thee." 

"  If  tha'd  keep  thy  nose  out  o'  th'  beer-mug  tha'd  do 
well  enow,"  said  Mrs.  Briarley. 

But  this  did  not  dispel  Mr.  Briarley 's  despondency.  He 
only  wept  afresh. 

"  Nay,  Sararann,"  he  said,  "  it  is  na  beer,  it's  misfor- 
chin.  I  allus  wur  misforchnit — 'ceptin'  when  I  getten 
thee." 

"Things  is  i'  a  bad  way,"  he  proceeded,  afterward. 
"  Things  is  i'  a  bad  way.  I  nivver  seed  'em  i'  th'  reet  leet 
till  I  heerd  Foxy  Gibbs  mak'  his  speech  to-neet.  Th' 
more  beer  he  getten  th'  eleyquenter  he  wur.  Theer'll  be 
trouble  wi'  th'  backbone  an'  sinoo,  if  theer  is  na  summat 
done." 

"  What  art  tha  drivin'  at  ?  "  fretted  his  wife.  "  I  canna 
rnak'  no  sense  out  o'  thee." 

"  Canna  tha  ? "  he  responded.  "  Canna  thee,  Sararann  ? 
Well,  I  dunnot  wonder.  It  wur  a  good  bit  afore  I 
straightened  it  out  mysen.  Happen  I  hannot  getten 
things  as  they  mout  be  yet.  Theer  wur  a  good  deal  o' 
talk  an'  a  good  deal  o'  beer,  an'  a  man  as  has  been  mis- 
forchnit  is  loike  to  be  slow." 

After  which  he  fell  into  a  deep  and  untroubled  slum 
ber,  and  it  being  found  impossible  to  rouse  him,  he  spent 
the  remainder  of  the  night  in  Granny  Dixon's  chair  by 
the  fire,  occasionally  startling  the  echoes  of  the  silent 
room  by  a  loud  and  encouraging  "  Eer-eer !  " 

During  the  following  two  weeks,  Haworth  did  not  go 
to  the  Ffrench's.  He  spent  his  nights  at  his  own  house 
in  dull  and  sullen  mood.  At  the  Works,  he  kept  his  word 
as  regarded  Ffrench.  That  gentleman's  lines  had  scarcely 


AN  UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  125 

fallen  in  pleasant  places.  His  partner  was  gruff  and 
authoritative,  and  not  given  to  enthusiasm.  There  were 
times  when  only  his  good-breeding  preserved  the  outward 
smoothness  of  affairs. 

"  But,"  he  said  to  his  daughter,  "  one  does  not  expect 
good  manners  of  a  man  like  that.  They  are  not  his 
fort*." 

At  the  end  of  the  two  weeks  there  came  one  afternoon 
a  message  to  Haworth  in  his  room.  Murdoch  was  with 
him  when  it  arrived.  He  read  it,  and,  crushing  it  in  his 
hand,  threw  it  into  the  fire. 

"  They're  a  nice  lot,"  he  said  with  a  short  laugh,  "  com 
ing  down  on  a  fellow  like  that." 

And  then  an  oath  broke  from  him. 

"I've  give  up  two  or  three  things,"  he  said,  "and 
they're  among  'em.  It's  th'  last  time,  and " 

He  took  down  his  overcoat  and  began  to  put  it  on. 

"  Tell  'em,"  he  said  to  Murdoch  as  he  went  out,—"  tell 
'em  I'm  gone  home,  and  sha'n't  be  back  till  morning. 
Keep  the  rest  to  yourself." 

He  went  out,  shutting  the  door  with  a  bang.  Murdoch 
stood  at  the  window  and  watched  him  drive  away  in  his 

gig- 

He  was  scarcely  out  of  sight  before  a  carriage  appeared 9 
moving  at  a  very  moderate  pace.  It  was  a  bright  though 
cold  day,  and  the  top  of  the  carriage  was  thrown  back, 
giving  the  occupant  the  benefit  of  the  sunshine.  The 
occupant  in  question  was  Rachel  Ffrench,  who  looked  up 
and  bestowed  upon  the  figure  at  the  window  a  slight  ges 
ture  of  recognition. 

Murdoch  turned  away  with  an  impatient  movement 
after  she  had  passed.  "  Pooh !  "  he  said,  angrily.  "  He's 
a  fool." 


126  "HAWORT&S." 

By  midnight  of  the  same  day  Haworth  had  had  time  to 
half  forget  his  scruples.  He  had  said  to  his  visitors  what 
he  had  said  to  Murdoch,  with  his  usual  frankness. 

"  It's  the  last  time.  We've  done  with  each  other  after 
this,  you  know.  It's  the  last  time.  Make  the  most  on  it." 

There  was  a  kind  of  desperate  exultation  in  his  humor. 
If  he  had  dared,  he  would  have  liked  to  fling  aside  every 
barrier  of  restraint  and  show  himself  at  his  worst,  defying 
the  world ;  but  fear  held  him  in  check,  as  nothing  else 
would  have  done, — an  abject  fear  of  consequences. 

By  midnight  the  festivities  were  at  their  height.  He 
himself  was  boisterous  with  wine  and  excitement.  He 
had  stood  up  at  the  head  of  his  table  and  made  a  blatant 
speech  and  roared  a  loud  song,  and  had  been  laughed  at 
and  applauded. 

"  Make  the  most  on  it,"  he  kept  saying.  "  It'll  be  over 
by  cock-crow.  It's  a  bit  like  a  chap's  funeral." 

He  had  just  seated  himself  after  this,  and  was  pouring 
out  a  great  glass  of  wine,  when  a  servant  entered  the 
room  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  low  tone. 

"  A  lady,  sir,  as  come  in  a  cab,  and "  And  then  the 

door  opened  again,  and  every  one  turned  to  look  at  the 
woman  who  stood  upon  the  threshold.  She  was  a  small 
woman,  dressed  in  plain  country  fashion  ;  she  had  white 
hair,  and  a  fresh  bloom  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were 
bright  with  timorous  excitement  and  joy. 

"  Jem,"  she  faltered,  "  it's  me,  my  dear." 

Haworth  stared  at  her  as  if  stunned.  At  first  his  brain 
was  not  clear  enough  to  take  in  the  meaning  of  her  pres 
ence,  but  as  she  approached  him  and  laid  her  basket  down 
and  took  his  hand,  the  truth  revealed  itself  to  him. 

"  It's  me,  my  dear,"  she  repeated, "  accordin'  to  promise 
I  didn't  know  you  had  comp'ny." 


AN  UNEXPECTED   QUEST.  127 

She  turned  to  those  who  sat  about  the  table  and  made 
a  little  rustic  courtesy.  A  dead  calm  seemed  to  take  pos 
session  of  one  and  all.  They  did  not  glance  at  each  other, 
but  looked  at  her  as  she  stood  by  Haworth,  holding  his 
hand,  waiting  for  him  to  kiss  her. 

"  He's  so  took  by  surprise,"  she  said,  "  he  doesn't  know 
what  to  say.  He  wasn't  expecting  me  so  soon,"  laughing 
proudly.  "  That's  it.  I'm  his  mother,  ladies  and  gentle 
men." 

Haworth  made  a  sign  to  the  servant  who  waited. 

"  Bring  a  plate  here,"  he  said.  "  She'll  sit  down  with 
us." 

The  order  was  obeyed,  and  she  sat  down  at  his  right 
hand,  fluttered  and  beaming. 

"  You're  very  good  not  to  mind  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
didn't  think  of  there  bein'  comp'ny — and  gentry,  too." 

She  turned  to  a  brightly  dressed  girl  at  her  side  and 
spoke  to  her. 

"  He's  rny  only  son,  Miss,  and  me  a  widder,  an'  he's 
allers  been  just  what  you  see  him  now.  He  was  good  from 
the  time  he  was  a  infant.  He's  been  a  pride  an'  a  com 
fort  to  me  since  the  day  he  were  born." 

The  girl  stared  at  her  with  a  look  which  was  almost  a 
look  of  fear.  She  answered  her  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"  Yes,  ma'am/'  she  said. 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  happily.  "  There's  not  many  mothers 
as  can  say  what  I  can.  He's  never  been  ashamed  of  me, 
hasn't  Jem.  If  I'd  been  a  lady  born,  he  couldn't  have 
showed  me  more  respect  than  he  has,  nor  been  more 
kinder." 

The  girl  did  not  answer  this  time.  She  looked  down 
at  her  plate,  and  her  hand  trembled  as  she  pretended  to 
occupy  herself  with  the  fruit  upon  it.  Then  she  stole  a 


128  "HAWORTH'S." 

glance  at  the  rest, — a  glance  at  once  guilty,  and  defiant  of 
the  smile  she  expected  to  see.  But  the  smile  was  not 
there. 

The  only  smile  to  be  seen  was  upon  the  face  of  the  lit 
tle  country  woman  who  regarded  them  all  with  innocent 
reverence,  and  was  in  such  bright  good  spirits  that  she 
did  not  even  notice  their  silence. 

"  I've  had  a  long  journey,"  she  said,  "  an'  I've  been 
pretty  flustered,  through  not  bein'  used  to  travel.  I  don't 
know  how  I'd  have  bore  up  at  first — bein'  flustered  so — if 
it  hadn't  have  been  for  everybody  bein'  so  good  to  me. 
I'd  mention  my  son  when  I  had  to  ask  anything,  an'  they'd 
smile  as  good-natured  as  could  be,  an'  tell  me  in  a  minute." 

The  multiplicity  of  new  dishes  and  rare  wine  bewil 
dered  her,  but  she  sat  through  the  repast  simple  and  un 
abashed. 

"  There's  some  as  wouldn't  like  me  bein'  so  ignorant," 
she  said,  "  but  Jem  doesn't  mind." 

The  subject  of  her  son's  virtues  was  an  inexhaustible 
one.  The  silence  about  her  only  gave  her  courage  and 
eloquence.  His  childish  strength  and  precocity,  his 
bravery,  his  good  temper,  his  generous  ways,  were  her 
themes. 

"  He  come  to  me  in  time  of  trouble,"  she  said,  "  an'  he 
made  it  lighter — an'  he's  been  makin'  it  lighter  ever 
since.  Who'd  have  thought  that  a  simple  body  like  me 
would  ever  have  a  grand  home  like  this — and  it  earned 
and  bought  by  my  own  son  ?  I  beg  your  pardon,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,"  looking  round  with  happy  tears.  "  I 
didn't  go  to  do  it,  an'  there's  no  reason  for  it,  except  me 
bein'  took  a  little  by  surprise  through  not  bein'  exactly 
prepared  for  such  a  grand  place  an'  gentlefolk's  comp'ny, 
as  is  so  good  an'  understands  a  mother's  feelin's." 


AN  UNEXPECTED   QUEST.  129 

When  the  repast  was  at  an  end,  she  got  up  and  made 
her  little  courtesy  to  them  all  again.  If  the  gentlefolk 
would  excuse  her,  she  would  bid  them  good-night.  She 
was  tired  and  not  used  to  late  hours. 

To  the  girl  who  had  sat  at  her  side  she  gave  an  admiring 
smile  of  farewell. 

"  You're  very  pretty,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  if  I  may 
take  the  liberty,  bein'  a  old  woman.  Good-night !  God 
bless  you  ! " 

When  she  was  gone,  the  girl  lay  forward,  her  face  hid 
den  upon  her  arms  on  the  table.  For  a  few  seconds  no 
one  spoke ;  then  Haworth  looked  up  from  his  plate,  on 
which  he  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed,  and  broke  the  stillness. 

"  If  there'd  been  a  fellow  among  you  that  had  dared  to 
show  his  teeth,"  he  said,  "  I'd  have  wrung  his  cursed 

neck !  " 

6* 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MISS  FFKENOH    MAKES   A   CALL. 

THE  following  Sunday  morning,  the  congregation  of 
Broxton  Chapel  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  repressed  ex 
citement.  Haworth's  carriage,  with  a  couple  of  servants, 
brought  his  mother  to  enjoy  Brother  Hixon's  eloquence. 
To  the  presence  of  the  carriage  and  servants  Haworth  had 
held  firm.  Upon  the  whole,  he  would  have  preferred 
that  she  should  have  presented  herself  at  the  door  of 
Broxton  Old  Church,  which  was  under  the  patronage  of 
the  county  families  and  honored  by  their  presence ;  but 
the  little  woman  had  exhibited  such  uneasiness  at  the  un 
folding  of  his  plan  of  securing  the  largest  and  handsomest 
pew  for  her  that  he  had  yielded  the  point. 

"I've  always  been  a chapel-goin'  woman,  Jem,"  she  had 
said,  "  an'  I  wouldn't  like  to  change.  An'  I  should  feel 
freer  where  there's  not  so  many  gentlefolk." 

The  carriage  and  the  attending  servants  she  had  sub 
mitted  to  with  simple  obedience.  There  were  no  rented 
pews  in  Broxton  Chapel,  and  she  took  her  seat  among  the 
rest,  innocently  unconscious  of  the  sensation  her  appear 
ance  created.  Every  matron  of  the  place  had  had  time  to 
learn  who  she  was,  and  to  be  filled  with  curiosity  concern 
ing  her. 

Janey  Briarley,  by  whose  side  she  chanced  to  sit,  knew 


MISS  FFRENCH  MAKES  A  CALL.  131 

more  than  all  the  rest,  and  took  her  under  her  protection 
at  once. 

"  Tha'st  getten  th'  wrong  hymn-book,"  she  whispered 
audibly,  having  glanced  at  the  volume  the  servant  handed 
to  her.  "  We  dunnot  use  Wesley  aw  th'  toime.  We  use 
Mester  Hixon's  '  Songs  o'  Grace.'  Tha  can  look  on  wi' 
me." 

Her  delicate  attentions  and  experience  quite  won  Dame 
Haworth's  motherly  heart. 

"  I  never  see  a  sharper  little  thing,"  she  said,  admiringly, 
afterward,  "  nor  a  old-fashioneder.  There  wasn't  a  tex' 
as  she  didn't  find  immediate,  nor  yet  a  hymn." 

"  Bless  us ! "  said  Mrs.  Briarley,  laboriously  lugging 
the  baby  homeward.  "  An'  to  think  o'  her  bein'  th'  mis 
tress  o'  that  big  house,  wi'  aw  them  chaps  i'  livery  at  her 
beck  an'  call.  Why,  she's  nowt  but  a  common  body,  Jane 
Ann.  She  thanked  thee  as  simple  as  ony  other  woman 
mought  ha'  done !  She's  noan  quality.  She'd  getten  a 
silk  gown  on,  but  it  wur  a  black  un,  an'  not  so  mich  as  a 
feather  i'  her  bonnet.  I'd  ha'  had  a  feather,  if  I'd  ha' 
been  her — a  feather  sets  a  body  off.  But  that's  allus  th' 
road  wi'  folk  as  has  brass — they  nivver  know  how  to 
spend  it." 

"  Nay,"  said  Janey,  "  she  is  na  quality ;  but  she's  getten 
a  noice  way  wi'  her.  Ha  worth  is  na  quality  hissen." 

"  She  wur  a  noice-spoken  owd  body,"  commented  Mrs. 
Briarley.  "  Seemt  loike  she  took  a  fancy  to  thee." 

Janey  turned  the  matter  over  mentally,  with  serious 
thrift. 

"  I  should  na  moind  it  if  she  did,"  she  replied.  "  She'll 
ha'  plenty  to  gi'  away." 

It  was  not  long  before  they  knew  her  well.  She  was  a 
cheerful  and  neighborly  little  soul,  and  through  the  years 


132 

of  her  prosperity  had  been  given  to  busy  and  kindly 
charities. 

In  her  steadfast  and  loving  determination  to  please  her 
son,  she  gave  up  her  rustic  habit  of  waiting  upon  herself, 
and  wore  her  best  gown  every  day,  in  spite  of  pangs  of 
conscience.  She  rode  instead  of  walked,  and  made  cour 
ageous  efforts  to  become  accustomed  to  the  size  and  mag 
nificence  of  the  big  rooms,  but,  notwithstanding  her  faith 
fulness,  she  was  a  little  restless. 

"  Not  bein'  used  to  it,"  she  said,  "  I  get  a  little  lonesome 
or  so — sometimes,  though  not  often,  my  dear." 

She  had  plenty  of  time  to  feel  at  a  loss.  Her  leisure 
was  not  occupied  by  visitors.  Broxton  discussed  her  and 
smiled  at  her,  rather  good-naturedly  than  otherwise.  It 
was  not  possible  to  suspect  her  of  any  ill,  but  it  was 
scarcely  to  be  anticipated  that  people  would  go  to  see  her. 
One  person  came,  however,  facing  public  opinion  with  her 
usual  calmness, — Rachel  Ffrench,  who  presented  herself 
one  day  and  made  her  a  rather  long  call. 

On  hearing  the  name  announced,  the  little  woman  rose 
tremulously.  She  was  tremulous  because  she  was  afraid 
that  she  could  not  play  her  part  as  mistress  of  her  son's 
household  to  his  honor.  When  Miss  Ffrench  advanced, 
holding  out  her  gloved  hand,  she  gave  her  a  startled  up 
ward  glance  and  dropped  a  little  courtesy. 

For  a  moment,  she  forgot  to  ask  her  to  be  seated.  When 
she  recollected  herself,  and  they  sat  down  opposite  to  each 
other,  she  could  at  first  only  look  at  her  visitor  in  silence. 

But  Miss  Ffrench  was  wholly  at  ease.  She  enjoyed  the 
rapturous  wonder  she  had  excited  with  all  her  heart.  She 
was  very  glad  she  had  come. 

"  It  must  be  very  pleasant  for  Mr.  Haworth  to  have 
you  here,"  she  said. 


MI88  FFRENCH  MAKES  A  CALL.  133 

The  woman  started.  A  flush  of  joy  rose  upon  her 
withered  face.  Her  comprehension  of  her  son's  prosperity 
had  been  a  limited  one.  Somehow  she  had  never  thought 
of  this.  Here  was  a  beautiful,  high-bred  woman  to  whom 
he  must  be  in  a  manner  near,  since  she  spoke  of  him  in 
this  way — as  if  he  had  been  a  gentleman  born. 

"  Jem  ? "  she  faltered,  innocently.  "  Yes,  ma'am.  I 
hope  so.  He's — he's  told  me  so." 

Then  she  added,  in  some  hurry : 

"  Not  that  I  can  be  much  comp'ny  to  him— it  isn't  that ; 
if  he  hadn't  been  what  he  is,  and  had  the  friends  he  has,  I 
couldn't  be  much  comp'ny  for  him.  An'  as  it  is,  it's  not 
likely  he  can  need  a  old  woman  as  much  as  his  goodness 
makes  him  say  he  does." 

Rachel  Ffrench  regarded  her  with  interest. 

"  He  is  very  good,"  she  remarked,  "  and  has  a  great 
many  friends,  I  dare  say.  My  father  admires  him  greatly." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  brightly,  "  though  there's  no  one 
could  help  it.  His  goodness  to  me  is  more  than  I  can  tell, 
an' .  it's  no  wonder  that  others  sees  it  in  him  an5  is  fond  of 
him  accordin'." 

"  No,  it's  no  wonder,"  in  a  tone  of  gentle  encourage 
ment. 

The  flush  upon  the  withered  cheek  deepened,  and  the 
old  eyes  lit  up. 

"  He's  thirty-two  year  old,  Miss,"  said  the  loving  crea 
ture,  "  an'  the  time's  to  come  yet  when  he's  done  a  wrong 
or  said  a  harsh  word.  He  was  honest  an'  good  as  a  child, 
an'  he's  honest  an'  good  as  a  man.  His  old  mother  can 
say  it  from  the  bottom  of  her  full  heart." 

"  It's  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  be  able  to  say,"  remarked 
her  visitor. 

"  It's  the  grateful  pride  of  my  life  that  I  can  say  it," 


134  «  HA  WORTITS."  , 

with  fresh  tenderness.  "  An'  to  think  that  prosperity 
goes  with  it  too.  I've  said  to  myself  that  I  wasn't  worthy 
of  it,  because  I  couldn't  never  be  grateful  enough.  He 
might  have  been  prosperous,  and  not  what  he  is.  Many  a 
better  woman  than  me  has  had  that  grief  to  bear,  an'  I've 
been  spared  it. 

When  Miss  Ff  rench  returned  to  her  carriage  she  wore 
a  reflective  look.  When  she  had  seated  herself  comfort 
ably,  she  spoke  aloud : 

"  No,  there  are  ten  chances  to  one  that  she  will  never 
see  the  other  side  at  all.  There  is  not  a  man  or  woman 
in  Broxton  who  would  dare  to  tell  her.  I  would  not  do  it 
myself." 

When  Haworth  returned  at  night  he  heard  the  particu 
lars  of  the  visit,  as  he  had  known  he  should  when  Ff  rench 
told  him  that  it  was  his  daughter's  intention  to  call  that  day. 

"  The  beaut  if  ulest  young  lady  my  old  eyes  ever  saw, 
my  dear,"  his  mother  said  again  and  again.  "An'  to 
think  of  her  comin'  to  see  me,  as  if  Td  been  a  lady  like 
herself." 

Haworth  spoke  but  little.  He  seldom  said  much  in 
these  days.  He  sat  at  the  table  drinking  his  after-dinner 
wine,  and  putting  a  question  now  and  then. 

"What  did  she  say?  "  he  asked. 

She  stopped  to  think. 

"  P'raps  it  was  me  that  said  most,"  she  answered, 
"  though  I  didn't  think  so  then.  She  asked  a  question  or 
so  an'  seemed  to  like  to  listen.  I  was  tellin'  her  what  a 
son  you'd  been  to  me,  an'  how  happy  I  was  an'  how  thank 
ful  I  was." 

"  She's  not  one  that  says  much,"  he  said,  without  look 
ing  up  from  the  glass  on  which  his  eyes  had  been  fixed. 
"  That's  her  way." 


MISS  FFRENCH  MAKES  A  CALL.  135 

She  replied  with  a  question,  put  timidly. 

"You've  knowed  her  a  good  bit,  I  dare  say,  my 
dear?" 

"  No,"  uneasily.     "  A  six- month  or  so,  that's  all." 

"  But  it's  been  long  enough  for  her  to  find  out  that  what 
I  said  to  her  was  true.  I  didn't  tell  her  what  was  new  to 
her,  my  dear.  I  see  that  by  her  smile,  an'  the  kind  way 
she  listened.  She's  got  a  beautiful  smile,  Jem,  an'  a 
beautiful  sweet  face." 

When  they  parted  for  the  night,  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  bank-note  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  he  said,  awkwardly,  "  that  it 
would  be  in  your  line  to  give  summat  now  and  then  to 
some  o'  the  poor  lot  that's  so  thick  here.  There's  plenty 
on  'em,  an'  p'r'aps  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing.  There's 
not  many  that's  fond  of  givin'.  Let's  set  the  gentry  a 
fashion." 

"  Jem !  "  she  said.  "  My  dear  !  there  isn't  nothin'  that 
would  make  me  no  happier — nothin'  in  the  world." 

"  It  won't  do  overmuch  good,  may  be,"  he  returned. 
"  More  than  half  on  'em  don't  deserve  it,  but  give  it  to 
'em  if  you've  a  fancy  for  it.  I  don't  grudge  it." 

There  were  tears  of  joy  in  her  eyes.  She  took  his  hand 
and  held  it,  fondling  it. 

"  I  might  have  knowed  it,"  she  said,  "  an'  I  don't  de 
serve  it  for  holdin'  back  an'  feelin'  a  bit  timid,  as  I  have 
done.  I've  thought  of  it  again  and  again,  when  I've  been 
a  trifle  lonesome  with  you  away.  There's  many  a  poor 
woman  as  is  hard -worked  that  I  might  help,  and  children 
too,  may  be,  me  bein'  so  fond  of  'em." 

She  drew  nearer  still  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"I  always  was  fond  of  'em," she  said,  "always — an'  I've 
thought  that,  sometimes,  my  dear,  there  might  be  little 


136  "HAWORTH'S." 

things  here  as  I  might  help  to  care  for,  an'  as  would  be 
fond  of  me. 

"  If  there  was  children,"  she  went  on,  "  I  should  get 
used  to  it  quick.  They'd  take  away  the — the  bigness,  an' 
make  me  forget  it." 

But  he  did  not  answer  nor  look  at  her,  though  she  felt 
his  arm  tremble. 

"  I  think  they'd  be  fond  of  me,"  she  said,  "  them  an' — 
an'  her  too,  whomsoever  she  might  be.  She'd  be  a  lady, 
Jem,  but  she  wouldn't  mind  my  ways,  I  dare  say,  an'  I'd 
do  my  best  with  all  my  heart.  I'd  welcome  her,  an'  give 
up  my  place  here  to  her,  joyful.  It's  a  place  fitter  for  a 
lady  such  as  she  would  be — God  bless  her! — than  for 
me."  Arid  she  patted  his  sleeve  and  bent  her  face  that 
she  might  kiss  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


So  the  poor  and  hard-worked  of  the  town  came  to  know 
her  well,  and  it  must  also  be  confessed  that  others  less 
deserving  learned  to  know  her  also,  and  proceeded,  with 
much  thrift  and  dexterity,  to  make  hay  while  the  sun 
shone.  Haworth  held  to  his  bargain,  even  going  to  the 
length  of  lavishness. 

"  Haworth  gives  it  to  her  ?  "  was  said  with  marked  in 
credulity  at  the  outset.  "  Nay,  lad,  tha  canna  mak'  me 
believe  that." 

Mrs.  Haworth' s  earliest  visit  was  made  to  the  Briarley 
cottage.  She  came  attired  in  her  simplest  gown,  the 
week  after  her  appearance  at  the  Chapel,  and  her  en 
trance  into  the  household  created  such  an  excitement  as 
somewhat  disturbed  her.  The  children  were  scattered 
with  wild  hustling  and  scurry,  while  Janey  dragged  off 
her  apron  in  the  temporary  seclusion  offered  by  the  door. 
Mrs.  Briarley,  wiping  the  soap-suds  from  her  arms,  hur 
ried  forward  with  apologetic  nervousness.  She  dropped 
a  courtesy,  scarcely  knowing  what  words  of  welcome 
would  be  appropriate  for  the  occasion,  and  secretly  spec 
ulating  on  possible  results. 

But  her  visitor's  demeanor  was  not  overpowering.  She 
dropped  a  courtesy  herself, — a  kindly  and  rustic  obei 
sance.  She  even  looked  somewhat  timid. 


138  "HAWORT&S." 

"  I'm  Mr.  Haworth's  mother,  ma'am,"  she  faltered, 
"  an' — an'  thank  you  kindly,"  taking  the  seat  offered. 
"  Don't  put  yourself  out,  ma'am,  for  me.  There  wasn't 
no  need  to  send  the  children  away, — not  at  all,  me  bein' 
partial  to  'em,  an'  also  used." 

The  next  instant  she  gave  a  timid  start. 

"  Gi'  me  my  best  cap ! "  cried  a  stentorian  voice. 
"  Gi'  me  my  best  cap  !  Wheer  is  it  ?  Gi'  me  my  best 
cap ! " 

Granny  Dixon's  high  basket-backed  chair  had  been 
placed  in  the  shadow  of  the  chimney-corner  for  the  better 
enjoyment  of  her  midday  nap,  and,  suddenly  aroused  by 
some  unknown  cause,  she  had  promptly  become  conscious 
of  the  presence  of  a  visitor  and  the  dire  need  of  some 
addition  to  her  toilet.  She  sat  up,  her  small-boned  figure 
trembling  with  wrath,  her  large  eyes  shining. 

"Gi'  me  my  best  cap!"  she  demanded.  "Gi'  it 
me ! " 

Mrs.  Briarley  disappeared  into  the  adjacent  room,  and 
came  out  with  the  article  required  in  her  hand.  It  was 
a  smart  cap,  with  a  lace  border  and  blue  bows  on  it. 

"  Put  it  on  !  "  shouted  Mrs.  Dixon.  "  An'  put  it  on 
straight ! " 

Mrs.  Briarley  obeyed  nervously. 

"She's  my  mester's  grandmother,"  she  exclaimed, 
plaintively.  "  Yo'  munnot  moind  her,  missus." 

Granny  Dixon  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  stranger. 

"She  getten  it,"  she  proclaimed.  "I  did  na.  I'd 
nivver  ha'  bowt  th'  thing  i'  th'  world.  Blue  nivver  wur 
becomin'  to  me.  She  getten  it.  She  nivver  had  no 
taste." 

"  Aye,"  said  Mrs.  Briarley,  "  I  did  get  it  fur  thee,  tha 
nasty  owd  piece,  but  tha'lt  nivver  catch  me  at  th'  loika 


MBS.  BRIARLEY'S  POSITION  IS  DELICATE.       130 

again, — givin'  thee  presents,  when  I  hannot  a  bit  o'  finery 
to  my  name." 

"  It  allus  set  me  off — red  did,"  cried  Mrs.  Dixon.  "  It 
wur  my  fav'rite  color  when  I  wur  a  lass, — an'  I  wur  a 
good-lookin'  lass,  too,  seventy  year  ago." 

"  I'm  sure  you  was,  ma'am/'  responded  Mrs.  Haworth. 
"  I've  no  doubt  on  it." 

"  She  canna  hear  thee,"  said  Mrs.  Briarley.  "  She's  as 
deaf  as  a  post — th'  ill-tempert  owd  besom,"  and  proceed 
ed  to  give  a  free  translation  at  the  top  of  her  lungs. 

"  She  says  tha  mun  ha'  been  han'some.  She  says  ony- 
body  could  see  that  to  look  at  thee." 

"  Aye,"  sharply.  "  She's  reet,  too.  I  wur,  seventy  year 
ago.  Who  is  she  ? " 

"  She's  Mester  Haworth's  mother." 

"  Mester  Haworth's  mother  ? "  promptly.  "  Did  na  tha 
tell  me  he  wur  a  rich  mon  ? " 

«  Aye,  I  did." 

"Well,  then,  what  does  she  dress  i'  that  road  fur* 
She's  noan  quality.  She  does  na  look  much  better  nor 
thee." 

"  Eh !  bless  us  ! "  protested  Mrs.  Briarley.  "  What's  a 
body  to  do  wi'  her  ? " 

"  Don't  mind  her,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Haworth.  "  It 
don't  do  no  harm.  A  old  person's  often  sing'lar.  It 
don't  trouble  me." 

Then  Janey,  issuing  from  her  retirement  in  compara 
tively  full  dress,  was  presented  with  due  ceremony. 

"  It  wur  her  as  fun  thy  place  i'  th'  hymn-book,"  said 
Mrs.  Briarley.  "  She's  a  good  bit  o'  help  to  me,  is  Jane 
Ann." 

It  seemed  an  easy  thing  afterward  to  pour  forth  her 
troubles,  and  she  found  herslf  so  far  encouraged  by  her 


140  "HAWORTH'S." 

visitor's  naive  friendliness  that  she  was  even  more  elo 
quent  than  usual. 

"  Theer's  trouble  ivvery  wheer,"  she  said,  "  an'  I  dare 
say  tha  has  thy  share,  missus,  fur  aw  thy  brass." 

Politeness  forbade  a  more  definite  reference  to  the 
"  goin's-on  "  which  had  called  forth  so  much  virtuous  in 
dignation  on  the  part  of  the  Broxton  matrons.  She  felt 
it  but  hospitable  to  wait  until  her  guest  told  her  own  story 
of  tribulation. 

But  Mrs.  Haworth  sat  smiling  placidly. 

"  I've  seen  it  in  my  day,"  she  said  ;  "  an'  it  were  heavy 
enough  too,  my  dear,  an'  seemed  heavier  than  it  were, 
p'r'aps,  through  me  bein'  a  young  thing  an'  helpless,  but 
I  should  be  a  ungrateful  woman  if  I  didn't  try  to  forget 
now  as  it  had  ever  been.  A  woman  as  has  such  a  son  as 
I  have — one  that's  prospered  an'  lived  a  pure,  good  life 
an'  never  done  a  willful  wrong,  an'  has  won  friends  an' 
respect  everywhere — has  enough  happiness  to  help  her 
forget  troubles  that's  past  an'  gone." 

Mrs.  Briarley  stopped  half-way  to  the  ground  in  the 
act  of  picking  up  Granny  Dixon's  discarded  head-gear. 
Her  eyes  were  wide  open,  her  jaw  fell  a  little.  But  her 
visitor  went  on  without  noticing  her. 

"  Though,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  she  said,  "  I  dare  say 
there's  not  one  on  you  as  doesn't  know  his  ways,  an' 
couldn't  tell  me  of  some  of  his  goodness  as  I  should  never 
lind  out  from  him." 

"  Wheer  art  tha  puttin'  my  cap  ? "  shouted  Granny 
Dixon  "  What  art  tha  doin'  wi"1  my  cap  ?  Does  tha 
think  because  I've  got  a  bit  o'  brass,  I  can  hot  th'  bake- 
oven  wi'  head-dresses  ? " 

Mrs.  Briarley  had  picked  up  the  cap,  and  was  only 
rescued  by  this  timely  warning  from  the  fatal  imprudence 


BRIARLEY'S  POSITION  IS  DELICATE.        141 

of  putting  it  in  the  fire  and  stirring  it  violently  with  the 
poker. 

"  Art  tha  dazeder  than  common  ? "  shrieked  the  old 
woman.  "  Has  tha  gone  daft  ?  What  art  tha  stariu'  at  ? " 

"  I  am  iia  starin'  at  nowt,"  said  Mrs.  Briarley,  with  a 
start.  "  1 — I  wur  hearkenin'  to  the  lady  here,  an'  I  did 
na  think  o'  what  I  wur  doin'." 

She  did  not  fully  recover  herself  during  the  whole  of 
her  visitor's  stay,  and,  in  fact,  several  times  lapsed  into 
the  same  meditative  condition.  When  Haworth's  charita 
ble  intentions  were  made  known  to  her,  she  stopped  jolt 
ing  the  baby  and  sat  in  wild  confusion. 

"  Did  tha  say  as  he  wur  goin'  to  gi'  thee  money  1 "  she 
exclaimed, — "  money  to  gi'  away  ?  " 

"  He  said  he'd  give  it  without  a  grudge,"  said  his 
mother,  proudly.  "Without  a  grudge,  if  it  pleased  me. 
That's  his  way,  my  dear.  It  were  his  way  from  the  time 
he  were  a  boy,  an'  worked  so  hard  to  give  me  a  comforta 
ble  home.  He  give  it,  he  said,  without  a  grudge." 

"Jane  Ann,"  said  Mrs.  Briarley,  standing  at  the  door 
to  watch  her  out  of  sight, — "Jane  Ann,  what  dost  tha 
think  o' that  theer?" 

She  said  it  helplessly,  clutching  at  the  child  on  her  hip 
with  a  despairing  grasp. 

"  Did  tha  hear  her  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  She  wur  talk- 
in'  o'  Haworth,  an'  she  wur  pridin'  hersen  on  th'  son  he'd 
been  to  her,  an' — an'  th'  way  he'd  lived.  Th'  cold  sweat 
broke  out  aw  over  me.  ]Sro  wonder  I  wur  for  puttin'  th' 
cap  i'  th'  fire.  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  us !  " 

But  Janey  regarded  the  matter  from  a  more  practical 
stand-point, 

"  He  has  na  treated  her  ill,"  she  said.  "Happen  he  is 
iia  so  bad  after  aw.  Did  tha  hear  what  she  said  about  th' 
money  ? " 


CHAPTER  XXII, 

AGAIN. 

K  THEER'S  a  chap,"  it  was  said  of  Murdoch  with  some 
disdain  among  the  malcontents, — "  theer's  a  chap  as 
coom  here  to  work  for  his  fifteen  bob  a  week,  an'  now 
he's  hand  i'  glove  wi'  th'  inesters  an's  getten  a  shop  o'  his 
own." 

The  "  shop  "  in  question  had,  however,  been  only  a  very 
simple  result  of  circumstances.  In  times  of  emergency  it 
had  been  discovered  that  "  th'  'Merican  chap  "  was  an  in 
dividual  of  resources.  Floxham  had  discovered  this  early, 
and,  afterward,  the  heads  of  other  departments.  If  a  ma 
chine  or  tool  was  out  of  order,  "  Tak'  it  to  th'  'Merican 
chap  an'  he'll  fettle  it,"  said  one  or  another.  And  the 
time  had  never  been  when  the  necessary  "  fettling  "  had 
not  been  accomplished.  In  his  few  leisure  moments, 
Murdoch  would  go  from  room  to  room,  asking  questions 
or  looking  on  in  silence  at  the  work  being  carried  on, 
Often  his  apparently  hap-hazard  and  desultory  examina 
tions  finally  resulted  in  some  suggestion  which  simplified 
things  astonishingly.  He  had  a  fancy  for  simplifying  and 
improving  the  appliances  he  saw  in  use,  and  this,  too,  with 
out  any  waste  of  words. 

But  gradually  rough  models  of  these  trifles  and  hastily 
made  drawings  collected  in  the  corner  of  the  common 


AGAIN.  143 

work-room  which  had  fallen  to  Murdoch,  and  Haworth's 
attention  was  drawn  toward  them. 

"  What  wi'  moddles  o'  this  an'  moddles  o'  that,"  Flox 
ham  remarked,  "we'll  ha'  to  mak'  a  flittin'  afore  long. 
Theer'll  be  no  room  fur  us,  nor  th'  engines  neyther." 

Haworth  turned  to  the  things  and  looked  them  over 
one  by  one,  touching  some  of  them  dubiously,  some  care 
lessly,  some  without  much  comprehension. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  to  Murdoch,  "  there's  a  room  nigh 

mine  that's  not  in  use.     I  don't  like  to  be  at  close  quarters 

with  every  chap,  but  you  can  bring  your  traps  up  there. 

e  It'll  be  a  place  to  stow  'em  an'  do  your  bits  o'  jobs  when 

you're  in  the  humor." 

The  same  day  the  change  was  made,  and  before  leav 
ing  the  Works,  Haworth  came  in  to  look  around.  Throw 
ing  himself  into  a  chair,  he  glanced  about  him  with  a 
touch  of  curiosity. 

"  They're  all  your  own  notions,  these  ? "  he  said. 

Murdoch  assented. 

"They  are  of  not  much  consequence,"  he  answered. 
"They  are  only  odds  and  ends  that  fell  into  my  hands 
somehow  when  they  needed  attention.  I  like  that  kind 
of  work,  you  know." 

"  Aye,"  responded  Haworth,  "  I  dare  say.  But  most 
chaps  would  have  had  more  to  say  about  doin'  'em  than 
you  have." 

Not  long  after  Ffrench's  advent  a  change  was  made. 

"If  you'll  give  up  your  old  job,  and  take  to  looking 
sharp  after  the  machinery  and  keeping  the  chaps  that 
run  it  up  to  their  work,"  said  Haworth,  "  you  can  do  it. 
It'll  be  a  better  shop  than  the  other  and  give  you  more 
time.  And  it'll  be  a  saving  to  the  place  in  the  end." 

So  the  small  room  containing  his  nondescript  collection 


"HAWORT&8." 

became  his  headquarters,  and  Murdoch's  position  was  a 
more  responsible  one.  He  found  plenty  of  work,  but  he 
had  more  time,  as  Haworth  had  prophesied,  and  he  had 
also  more  liberty. 

"  Yo're  getten  on,"  said  Janey  Briarley.  "  Yo're  getten 
more  wage  an'  less  work,  an'  yo're  one  o'  th'  mesters,  i'  a 
way.  Yo'  go  wi'  th'  gentlefolk  a  good  bit,  too.  Feyther 
says  Ffrench  mak's  hissen  as  thick  wi'  yo'  as  if  yo'  wur  a 
gentleman  yorsen.  Yo'  had  yore  supper  up  theer  last 
neet.  Did  she  set  i'  th'  room  an'  talk  wi'  yo'  ? " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  It  was  not  necessary  to  explain 
who  "  she  "  was. 

"  Well,"  said  Janey,  "  she  would  na  do  that  if  she  did 
na  think  more  o1  yo'  nor  if  yo'  were  a  common  chap. 
She's  pretty  grand  i'  her  ways.  What  did  yo'  talk 
about?" 

"It  would  be  hard  to  tell  now,"  he  replied.  "We 
talked  of  several  things." 

"  Aye,  but  what  I  wanted  to  know  wur  whether  she 
talked  to  thee  loike  she'd  talk  to  a  gentlemon, — whether 
she  made  free  wi'  thee  or  not." 

"I  have  never  seen  her  talk  to  a  gentleman,"  he 
said. 

"  How  does  she  talk  to  Haworth  ? " 

"  I  have  never  seen  her  talk  to  him  either.  We  have 
never  been  there  at  the  same  time." 

This  was  true.  It  had  somehow  chanced  that  they  had 
never  met  at  the  house.  Perhaps  Rachel  Ffrench  knew 
why.  She  had  found  Broxton  dull  enough  to  give  her  an 
interest  in  any  novelty  of  emotion  or  experience.  She 
disliked  the  ugly  town,  with  its  population  of  hard- 
worked  and  unpicturesque  people.  She  hated  the  quiet, 
well  regulated,  well-bred  county  families  with  candor  and 


AGAIN.  145 

vivacity.  She  had  no  hesitation  in  announcing  her  dis 
taste  and  weariness. 

"  I  detest  them  all,"  she  once  said  calmly  to  Murdoch. 
"  I  detest  them." 

She  made  the  best  of  the  opportunities  for  enlivenment 
which  lay  within  her  grasp.  She  was  not  averse  to  Ha- 
worth's  presenting  himself  again  and  again,  sitting  in  rest 
less  misery  in  the  room  with  her,  watching  her  every 
movement,  drinking  in  her  voice,  struggling  to  hold  him 
self  in  check,  and  failing  and  growing  sullen  and  silent, 
and  going  away,  carrying  his  wretchedness  with  him.  She 
never  encouraged  him  to  advance  by  any  word  or  look, 
but  he  always  returned  again,  to  go  through  the  same  self- 
torture  and  humiliation,  and  she  always  knew  he  would. 
She  even  derived  some  unexciting  entertainment  from  her 
father's  plans  for  the  future.  He  had  already  new  meth 
ods  and  processes  to  discuss.  He  had  a  fancy  for  estab 
lishing  a  bank  in  the  town,  and  argued  the  advisability  of 
the  scheme  with  much  fervor  and  brilliancy.  Without 
a  bank  in  which  the  "hands  "  could  deposit  their  earnings, 
and  which  should  make  the  town  a  sort  of  center,  and  add 
importance  to  its  business  ventures,  Broxton  was  noth 
ing. 

The  place  was  growing,  and  the  people  of  the  sur 
rounding  villages  were  drawn  toward  it  when  they  had 
business  to  transact.  They  were  beginning  to  buy  and 
sell  in  its  market,  and  to  look  to  its  increasing  population 
for  support.  The  farmers  would  deposit  their  funds,  the 
shop-keepers  theirs,  the  "  hands "  would  follow  their  ex 
ample,  and  in  all  likelihood  it  would  prove,  in  the  end,  a 
gigantic  success. 

Haworth  met  his  enthusiasms  with  stolid  indifference. 
Sometimes  he  did  not  listen  at  all,  sometimes  he  laughed 
7 


14:6  "HAWORTH'S." 

a  short,  heavy  laugh,  sometimes  he  flung  him  off  with  a 
rough  speech.  But  in  spite  of  this,  there  were  changes 
gradually  made  in  the  Works, — trifling  changes,  of  which 
Ila worth  was  either  not  conscious,  or  which  he  disdained 
to  notice.  He  lost  something  of  his  old  masterful  thor 
oughness  ;  he  was  less  regular  in  his  business  habits ;  he 
was  prone  to  be  tyrannical  by  fits  and  starts. 

"  Go  to  Ff  rench,"  he  said,  roughly,  to  one  of  the 
"  hands,"  on  one  occasion :  and  though  before  he  had 
reached  the  door  he  was  called  back,  the  man  did  not 
forget  the  incident. 

Miss  Ff  rench  looked  on  at  all  of  this  with  a  great  deal 
of  interest. 

"  He  does  not  care  for  the  place  as  he  did,"  she  said  to 
Murdoch.  "  He  does  not  like  to  share  his  power  with 
another  man.  It  is  a  nightmare  to  him." 

By  this  time,  she  had  seen  Murdoch  the  oftener  of  the 
two.  Mr.  Ffrench's  fancy  for  him  was  more  enthusiastic 
than  his  fancy  for  the  young  man  from  Manchester  or  the 
Cumberland  mechanic.  He  also  found  him  useful,  and 
was  not  chary  of  utilizing  him.  In  time,  the  servants  of 
the  house  ceased  to  regard  him  as  an  outsider,  and  were 
surprised  when  he  was  absent  for  a  few  days. 

"  We  have  a  fellow  at  our  place  whom  you  will  hear  of 
some  of  these  days,"  Ff  rench  said  to  his  friends.  u  He 
spends  his  evenings  with  me  often." 

"  Ffrench  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  thee,  lad,"  Ha- 
worth  said,  drily.  "  He  says  you're  goin'  to  astonish  us 
some  o'  these  days." 

"  Does  he  ?  "  Murdoch  answered. 

"  Aye.  He's  got  a  notion  that  you're  holding  on  to 
Bummat  on  the  quiet,  and  that  it'll  come  out  when  we're 
not  expecting  it. " 


AGAIN.  147 

They  were  in  the  little  work-room  together,  and  Mur 
doch,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head,  looked  before  him  without  replying,  ex 
cept  by  a  slight  knitting  of  his  brows. 

Ha  worth  laughed  harshly. 

"  Confound  him  for  a  fool !  "  he  said.  "  I'm  sick  of 
the  chap,  with  his  talk.  He'll  stir  me  up  some  o'  these 
days." 

Then  he  looked  up  at  his  companion. 

"He  has  you  up  there  every  night  or  so,"  he  said. 
"  What  does  he  want  of  you  ?  " 

"  Never  the  same  thing  twice,"  said  Murdoch. 

"  Do  you — always  see  her  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  man  moved  in  his  seat,  a  sullen  red  rising  to  his 
forehead. 

"  What — has  she  to  say?  "  he  asked. 

Murdoch  turned  about  to  confront  him.  He  spoke  in 
a  low  voice,  and  slowly. 

"  Do  you  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "  whether  she  treats 
me  as  she  would  treat  another  man  ?  Is  that  it  ? " 

"  Aye,"  was  the  grim  answer,  "  summat  o'  that  sort, 
lad." 

Murdoch  left  his  chair.  He  uttered  half  a  dozen 
words  hoarsely. 

"Come  up  to  the  house  some  night  and  judge  for 
yourself,"  he  said. 

He  went  out  of  the  room  without  looking  back.  It  was 
Saturday  noon,  and  he  had  the  half -day  of  leisure  before 
him,  but  he  did  not  turn  homeward.  He  made  his  way 
to  the  high  road  and  struck  out  upon  it.  He  had  no 
definite  end  in  view,  at  first,  except  the  working  off  of  his 
passionate  excitement,  but  when,  after  twenty  minutes' 


U8  "HAWORTW8" 

walk  he  came  within  sight  of  Broxton  Chapel  and  its 
grave-yard  his  steps  slackened,  and  when  he  reached  the 
gate,  he  stopped  a  moment  and  pushed  it  open  and 
turned  in. 

It  was  a  quiet  little  place,  with  an  almost  rustic  air,  of 
which  even  the  small,  ugly  chapel  could  not  rob  it.  The 
grass  grew  long  upon  the  mounds  of  earth  and  swayed 
softly  in  the  warm  wind.  Only  common  folk  lay  there, 
and  there  were  no  monuments  and  even  few  slabs.  Mur 
doch  glanced  across  the  sun-lit  space  to  the  grass-covered 
mound  of  which  he  had  thought  when  he  stopped  at  the 
gateway. 

He  had  not  thought  of  meeting  any  one,  and  at  the  first 
moment  the  sight  of  a  figure  standing  at  the  grave-side  in 
the  sunshine  was  something  of  a  shock  to  him.  He  went 
forward  more  slowly,  even  with  some  reluctance,  though 
he  had  recognized  at  once  that  the  figure  was  that  of 
Christian  Murdoch. 

She  stood  quite  still,  looking  down,  not  hearing  him 
until  he  was  close  upon  her.  She  seemed  startled  when 
she  saw  him. 

"  Why  did  you  come  here  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  I  needed  quiet,  I  sup 
pose,  and  the  place  has  a  quiet  look.  Why  did  you  come  ? " 

"  It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  been,"  she  said.  "  I 
come  here  often." 

"  You  !"  he  said.     "Why?" 

She  pointed  to  the  mound  at  her  feet. 

"  Because  he  is  here,"  she  said,  "  and  I  have  learned  to 
care  for  him." 

She  knelt  down  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  grass,  and 
he  remembered  her  emotion  in  the  strange  scene  which 
had  occurred  before." 


AGAIN.  149 

"  I  know  him  very  well,"  she  said.     "  I  'know  him." 
"  You  told  me  that  I  would  not  understand,"  he  said* 
"  It  is  true  that  I  don't  yet- 
Suddenly  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  voice. 
a  He  does  not  seem  a  dead  man  to  me,"  she  said.     "  He 
never  will." 

"  I  do  not  think,"  he  answered,  heavily,  "  that  his  life 
seems  at  an  end  to  any  of  us." 

"  Not  to  me,"  she  repeated.  "  I  have  thought  of  him 
until  I  have  seemed  to  grow  near  to  him,  and  to  know 
what  his  burden  was,  and  how  patiently  he  bore  it.  I 
have  never  been  patient.  I  have  rebelled  always,  and  so 
it  has  gone  to  my  heart  all  the  more." 

Murdoch  looked  down  upon  the  covering  sod  with  a 
pang. 

"  He  did  bear  it  patiently,"  he  said,  "  at  the  bitterest 
and  worst." 

"  I  know  that,"  she  replied.  "  I  have  been  sure  of  it." 
"  I  found  some  papers  in  my  room  when  I  first  came," 
she  went  on.  "  Some  of  them  were  plans  he  had  drawn 
thirty  years  ago.  He  had  been  very  patient  and  constant 
with  them.  He  had  drawn  the  same  thing  again  and 
again.  Often  he  had  written  a  few  words  upon  them, 
and  they  helped  me  to  understand.  After  I  had  looked 
them  over  I  could  not  forget.  They  haunted  me  and 
came  back  to  me.  I  began  to  care  for  him,  and  put  things 
together  until  all  was  real." 

Then  she  added,  slowly  and  in  a  lowered  voice : 
"  I  have  even  thought  that  if  he  had  lived  he  would 
have  been  fond  of  me.     1  don't  know  why,  but  I  have 
thought  that  perhaps  he  would." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  knowledge  of  her,  Murdoch  saw 
in  her  the  youth  he  had  always  missed.  Her  dark  and 


150  "HAWORTH'S." 

bitter  young  face  was  softened;  for  the  moment  she 
seemed  almost  a  child, — even  though  a  child  whose  life 
had  been  clouded  by  the  shadow  of  sin  and  wrong. 

"  I  think — he  would,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"  And  I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  coming  here  when  I 
was  lonely  or — at  my  worst." 

"  You  are  lonely  often,  I  dare  say,"  he  returned,  weari 
ly.  "  I  wish  it  could  be  helped." 

"  It  is  nothing  new,"  she  replied,  with  something  of  her 
old  manner,  "  and  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

But  her  touch  upon  the  grass  was  a  caress.  She 
smoothed  it  softly,  and  moved  with  singular  gentleness  a 
few  dead  leaves  which  had  dropped  upon  it. 

"  When  I  come  here  I  am — better,"  she  said,  "  and — • 
less  hard.  Things  do  not  seem  to  matter  so  much — or  to 
look  so  shameful." 

A  pause  followed,  which  she  herself  broke  in  upon. 

"  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  of — what  he  left  unfin 
ished,"  she  said.  "  I  have  wished  that  I  might  see  it.  It 
would  be  almost  as  if  I  had  seen  him." 

"  I  can  show  it  to  you,"  Murdoch  answered.  "  It  is  a 
little  thing  to  have  caused  so  great  pain." 

They  said  but  little  else  until  they  rose  to  go.  As  he 
s*t  watching  the  long  grass  wave  under  the  warm  wind, 
Murdoch  felt  that  his  excitement  had  calmed  down.  He 
was  in  a  cooler  mood  when  they  got  up  at  last.  But 
before  they  turned  away  the  girl  lingered  for  a  moment, 
as  if  she  wished  to  speak. 

"  Sometimes,"  she  faltered, — "  sometimes  I  have  thought 
you  had  half  forgotten." 

"  Nay,"  he  answered,  "  never  that,  God  knows ! " 

"  I  could  not  bear  to  believe  it,"  she  said,  passionately. 
"  It  would  make  me  hate  you ! " 


AGAIN.  151 

When  they  reached  home  he  took  her  upstairs  to  his 
room.  He  had  locked  the  door  when  he  left  it  in  the 
morning.  He  unlocked  it,  and  they  went  in.  A  cloth 
covered  something  standing  upon  the  table.  He  drew  it 
aside  with  an  unsteady  hand. 

"  Look  at  it,"  he  said.  "  It  has  been  there  since  last  night. 
You  see  it  haunts  me  too." 

"What!"  she  said,  "you  brought  it  out  yourself — 
again ! " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  again." 

She  drew  nearer,  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  before  the 
table. 

"  He  used  to  sit  here  2  "  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  If  it  had  been  finished,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  to 
herself,  "Death  would  have  seemed  a  little  thing  to  him. 
Even  if  it  should  be  finished  now,  I  think  he  would  for 
get  the  rest." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"TEN  SHILLINGS'   WORTH." 

THE  same  evening  Mr.  Briarley,  having  partaken  of  an 
early  tea  and  some  vigorous  advice  from  his  wife,  had 
suddenly,  during  a  lull  in  the  storm,  vanished  from  the 
domestic  circle,  possibly  called  therefrom  by  the  recollec 
tion  of  a  previous  engagement.  Mrs.  Briarley  had  gone 
out  to  do  her  "  Sunday  shoppin',"  the  younger  children 
had  been  put  to  bed,  the  older  ones  were  disporting  them 
selves  in  the  streets  and  by-ways,  and  consequently  Janey 
was  left  alone,  uncheered  save  by  the  presence  of  Granny 
Dixon,  who  had  fallen  asleep  in  her  chair  with  her  cap 
unbecomingly  disarranged. 

Janey  sat  down  upon  her  stool  at  a  discreet  distance 
from  the  hearth.  She  had  taken  down  from  its  place  her 
last  book  of  "  memoirs," — a  volume  of  a  more  than  usually 
orthodox  and  peppery  flavor.  She  held  it  within  range 
of  the  light  of  the  fire  and  began  to  read  in  a  subdued 
tone  with  much  unction. 

But  she  had  only  mastered  the  interesting  circumstance 
that  "  James  Joseph  William  was  born  November  8th," 
when  her  attention  was  called  to  the  fact  that  wheels  had 
stopped  before  the  gate  and  she  paused  to  listen. 

"  Bless  us ! "  she  said.     "  Some  un's  comin'  in." 

The  person  in  question  was  Haworth,  who  so  far  dis- 


"  TEN  SHILLINGS'    WORTH."  153 

pensed  with  ceremony  as  to  walk  up  to  the  firelight  with 
out  even  knocking  at  the  door,  which  stood  open. 

"  Where's  your  father  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  He's  takken  hissen  off  to  th'  beer-house,"  said  Janey, 
"  as  he  allus  does  o'  Saturday  neet, — an'  ivvery  other  neet 
too,  as  he  gets  th'  chance." 

A  chair  stood  near  and  Haworth  took  it. 

"  I'll  sit  down  and  wait  for  him,"  he  replied. 

"  Tha'lt  ha'  to  wait  a  good  bit  then,"  said  Miss  Briarley. 
"  He'll  noan  be  whoam  till  midneet." 

She  stood  in  no  awe  of  her  visitor.  She  had  heard  him 
discussed  too  freely  and  too  often.  Of  late  years  she  had 
not  unfrequently  assisted  in  the  discussions  herself.  She 
was  familiar  with  his  sins  and  short-comings  and  regarded 
him  with  due  severity. 

"  He'll  noan  be  whoam  till  midneet,"  she  repeated  as 
she  seated  herself  on  her  stool. 

But  Haworth  did  not  move.  He  was  in  a  mysterious 
humor,  it  was  plain.  In  a  minute  more  his  young  com 
panion  began  to  stare  at  him  with  open  eyes.  She  saw 
something  in  his  face  which  bewildered  her. 

"  He's  get  ten  more  than's  good  fur  him,"  she  was  about 
to  decide  shrewdly,  when  he  leaned  forward  and  touched 
her  with  the  handle  of  the  whip  he  held. 

"  You're  a  sharp  little  lass,  I  warrant,"  he  said. 

Janey  regarded  him  with  some  impatience.  He  was 
flushed  and  somewhat  disheveled  and  spoke  awkwardly. 

"  You're  a  sharp  little  lass,  I'll  warrant,"  he  said  again. 

"  I  ha'  to  be,"  she  responded,  tartly.  "  Tha'd  be  sharp 
thysen  if  tha  had  as  mich  to  look  after  as  I  ha'." 

"  I   dare  say,"   he   answered.     "  I   dare   say."      Then 
added  even  more  awkwardly  still,  "  I've  heard  Murdoch 
say  you  were — Murdoch." 
7* 


154  "HAWORT&8." 

The  disfavor  with  which  sjie  had  examined  him  began 
be  to  mingled  with  distrust.  She  hitched  her  stool  a  few 
inches  backward. 

"Mester  Murdoch!"  she  echoed.  "  Aye,  I  know  him 
well  enow." 

"  He  comes  here  every  day  or  so  ?  " 

"  Aye,  him  an'  me's  good  friends." 

"  He's  got  a  good  many  friends,"  he  said. 

"  Aye,"  she  answered.  "  He's  a  noice  chap.  Most  o' 
folk  tak'  to  him.  Theer's  Mr.  Ffrench  now  and  her." 

"  He  goes  there  pretty  often  ?  " 

"Aye,  oftener  than  he  goes  any  wheer  else.  They 
mak'  as  mich  o'  him  as  if  he  wur  a  gentleman." 

"Did  A<?  tell  you  that?" 

"  Nay,"  she  answered.  "  He  does  na  talk  mich  about 
it.  I've  fun  it  out  fro'  them  as  knows." 

Then  a  new  idea  presented  itself  to  her. 

"  What  does  tha  want  to  know  fur  ?  "  she  demanded 
with  unceremonious  candor. 

He  did  not  tell  her  why.  He  gave  no  notice  to  her 
question  save  by  turning  away  from  the  fire  suddenly  and 
asking  her  another. 

"  What  does  he  say  about  her  f  " 

He  spoke  in  such  a  manner  that  she  pushed  her  stool 
still  farther  back,  and  sat  staring  at  him  blankly  and  with 
some  indignation. 

O 

"He  does  na  say  nowt  about  her,"  she  exclaimed 
"  What's  up  wi'  thee  ? " 

The  next  moment  she  uttered  an  ejaculation  and  the 
book  of  memoirs  fell  upon  the  floor.  A  flame  shot  up 
from  the  fire  and  showed  her  his  face.  He  drew  forth 
his  purse  and,  opening  it,  took  out  a  coin.  The  light  fell 
upon  that  too  and  showed  her  what  it  was. 


"  TEN  SHILLINGS    WORTH."  155 

"Do  you  see  that  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Aye/'  she  answered,  "  it's  a  half-sov'rin." 

"  I'll  give  it  to  you,"  he  said,  "  if  you'll  tell  me  what  he 
says  and  what  he  does.  You're  sharp  enow  to  have  seen 
surnmat,  and  I'll  give  it  you  if  you'll  tell  me." 

He  did  not  care  what  impression  he  made  on  her  or 
how  he  entangled  himself.  He  only  thought  of  one  thing. 

"  Tell  me  what  he  says  and  what  he  does,3'  he  repeated, 
"  and  I'll  give  it  to  you." 

Janey  rose  from  her  stool  in  such  a  hurry  that  it  lost  its 
balance  and  fell  over. 

"  I — I  dunnot  want  it !  "  she  cried.  "  I  dunnot  want  it. 
I  can  na  mak'  thee  out !  " 

"  You're  not  as  sharp  as  I  took  you  for,  if  you  don't 
want  it,"  he  answered.  "  You'll  not  earn  another  as  easy, 
my  lass." 

Only  stern  common  sense  rescued  her  from  the  weak 
ness  of  backing  out  of  the  room  into  the  next  apartment. 

"  I  dunnot  know  what  tha'rt  drivin'  at,"  she  said.  "  I 
tell  thee — I  dunnot  know  nowt." 

"  Does  he  never  say,"  he  put  it  to  her,  "  that  he's  been 
there — and  that  he's  seen  her — and  that  she's  sat  and 
talked — and  that  he's  looked  at  her — and  listened — and 
thought  over  it  afterward  ? " 

This  was  the  last  straw.  Bewilderment  turned  to  con 
tempt. 

"  That  would  na  be  worth  ten  shillin',"  she  said.  "  Tha 
knows  he's  been  theer,  an'  tha  knows  he's  seen  her,  an'  tha 
knows  he  could  na  see  her  wi'out  lookin'  at  her.  I  dun- 
not  see  as  theer's  owt  i'  lookin'  at  her,  or  i'  listenin'  ney- 
ther.  Wheer's  th'  use  o'  givin  ten  shillin'  to  hear  suinmat 
yo'  know  yo'rsen  ?  "  There's  nowt  i'  that !  " 

"  Has  he  ever  said  it  ? "  he  persisted. 


156  "HAWORTH'S." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  he  has  na.  He  nivver  wur  much 
give  ter  talk,  an'  he  says  less  than  ivver  i'  these  days." 

"  Has  he  never  said  that  she  treated  him  well,  and — 
was  easier  to  please  than  he'd  thought ;  has  he  never  said 
nowt  like  that  ?  " 

"  Nay,  that  he  has  na  !  "  with  vigor.  "  Nowt  o'  th'  soart." 

He  got  up  as  unceremoniously  and  abruptly  as  he  had 
sat  down. 

"  I  was  an  accursed  fool  for  coming,"  she  heard  him 
mutter. 

He  threw  the  half-sovereign  toward  her,  and  it  fell  on 
the  floor. 

"  Art  tha  goin'  to  gi5  it  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  and  he  strode  through  the  door 
way  into  the  darkness,  leaving  her  staring  at  it. 

She  went  to  the  fire  and,  bending  down,  examined  it 
closely  and  rubbed  it  with  a  corner  of  her  apron.  Then 
she  tried  its  ring  upon  the  flagged  floor. 

"  Aye,"  she  said,  "  it's  a  good  un,  sure  enow  !  It's  a 
good  un ! " 

She  had  quite  lost  her  breath.  She  sat  down  upon  her 
stool  again,  forgetting  the  memoirs  altogether. 

"  I  nivver  heard  so  mich  doment  made  over  nowt  i'  aw 
my  days,"  she  said.  "  I  conna  see  now  what  he  wnr  up 
to,  axin'  questions  as  if  he  wur  i'  drink.  He  mun  ha' 
been  i'  drink  or  he'd  nivver  ha'  gi'en  it  to  me." 

And  on  the  mother's  return  she  explained  the  affair  to 
her  upon  this  sound  and  common-sense  basis. 

"  Mester  Haworth's  been  here,"  she  said,  "  an'  he  wur 
i'  drink  an'  give  me  ten  shillin'.  I  could  na  mak'  out 
what  he  wur  drivin5  at.  He  wur  askin'  questions  as  put 
me  out  o'  patience.  Eh  !  what  foo's  men  is  when  they've 
getten  too  much." 


«*  TEN  SHILLINGS'    WORTH."  157 

When  he  left  the  house,  Haworth  sprang  into  his  gig 
with  an  oath.  Since  the  morning  he  had  had  time  to 
think  over  things  slowly.  He  had  worked  himself  up 
into  a  desperate,  headlong  mood.  His  blood  burned  in 
his  veins,  his  pulses  throbbed.  He  went  home  to  his  din 
ner,  but  ate  nothing.  He  drank  heavily,  and  sat  at  the 
table  wearing  such  a  look  that  his  mother  was  stricken 
with  wonder. 

"  I'm  out  o'  humor,  old  lady,"  he  said  to  her.  "  Stick 
to  your  dinner,  and  don't  mind  me.  A  chap  with  a 
place  like  mine  on  his  mind  can't  always  be  up  to  the 
mark." 

"  If  you  ain't  ill,  Jem,"  she  said,  "  it  don't  matter  your 
not  talkin'.  You  mustn't  think  o'  me,  my  dear!  I'm 
used  to  havin'  lived  alone  so  long." 

After  dinner  he  went  out  again,  but  before  he  left  the 
room  he  went  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  There's  nowt  wrong  wi'  me,"  he  said.  "  You've  no 
need  to  trouble  yourself  about  that.  I'm  right  enow, 
never  fear." 

"  There's  nothin'  else  could  trouble  me,"  she  said, 
"  nothin',  so  long  as  you're  well  an'  happy." 

"  There's  nowt  to  go  agen  me  bein'  happy,"  he  said,  a 
little  grimly.  "  Not  yet,  as  I  know  on.  I  don't  let  things 
go  agen  me  easy." 

About  half  an  hour  later,  he  stood  in  the  road  before 
his  partner's  house.  The  night  was  warm,  and  the  win 
dows  of  the  drawing-room  were  thrown  open.  He  stood 
and  looked  up  at  them  for  a  minute  and  then  spoke 
aloud. 

"Aye,"  he  said,  "  he's  there,  by  George !  " 

He  could  see  inside  plainly,  and  the  things  he  saw  best 
were  Rachel  Ffrench  and  Murdoch.  Ff rench  himself  sat 


158  "HAWORT&8." 

in  a  large  chair,  reading.  Miss  Ffrench  stood  upon  tha 
hearth.  She  rested  an  arm  upon  the  low  mantel,  and 
talked  to  Murdoch,  who  stood  opposite  to  her.  The  man 
who  watched  uttered  an  oath  at  the  sight  of  her. 

"  Him  !  "  he  said.  "  Him — damn  him !  "  and  grew  hot 
and  cold  by  turns. 

He  kept  his  stand  for  full  ten  minutes,  and  then  crossed 
the  road. 

The  servant  who  answered  his  summons  at  the  door  re 
garded  him  with  amazement. 

"  I  know  they're  in,"  he  said,  making  his  way  past  him. 
"  I  saw  'em  through  the  window." 

Those  in  the  drawing-room  heard  his  heavy  feet  as  he 
mounted  the  staircase.  It  is  possible  that  each  recognized 
the  sound.  Ffrench  rose  hurriedly,  and,  it  must  be 
owned,  with  some  slight  trepidation.  Eachel  merely 
turned  her  face  toward  the  door.  She  did  not  change 
her  position  otherwise  at  all.  Murdoch  did  not  move. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Ffrench,  with  misplaced  enthu 
siasm.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

But  Haworth  passed  him  over  with  a  nod.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Murdoch.  He  gave  him  a  nod  also  and 
spoke  to  him. 

"  What,  you're  here,  are  you  ? "  he  said.  "  That's  a 
good  thing." 

"We  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Ffrench,  with  fresh  fervor. 
"  My  dear  fellow,  sit  down." 

He  took  the  chair  offered  him,  but  still  looked  at  Mur 
doch  and  spoke  to  him. 

"I've  been  to  Eriarley's,"  he  said.  "I've  had  a  talk 
with  that  little  lass  of  his.  She  gave  me  the  notion  you'd 
be  here.  She's  a  sharp  little  un,  by  George  !  " 

"  They're  all  sharp,"  said  Mr.  Ffrench.     "  The  preco- 


"  TEN  SHILLINGS'    WORTH."  159 

city  one  finds  in  these  manufacturing  towns  is  something 
astonishing — astonishing. " 

He  launched  at  once  into  a  dissertation  upon  the  causes 
of  precocity  in  a  manufacturing  town,  and  became  so  ab 
sorbed  in  his  theme  that  it  mattered  very  little  that  Ha- 
worth  paid  no  attention  to  him.  He  was  leaning  back  in 
his  chair  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  not  moving  his 
eyes  from  Murdoch. 

Mr.  Ffrench  was  in  the  middle  of  his  dissertation  when, 
half  an  hour  afterward,  Haworth  got  up  without  cere 
mony.  Murdoch  was  going. 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  he  said  to  him. 

They  went  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  staircase  to 
gether  without  speaking.  They  did  not  even  look  at  each 
other. 

When  they  were  fairly  out  of  the  room  Mr.  Ffrench 
glanced  somewhat  uneasily  at  his  daughter. 

"  Really,"  he  said,  "  he  is  not  always  a  pleasant  fellow 
to  deal  with.  One  is  never  sure  of  reaching  him."  And 
then,  as  he  received  no  answer,  he  returned  in  some  em 
barrassment  to  his  book. 


CHAPTER  XXI7. 

AT   AN   END. 

WHEN  they  stood  in  the  road,  Haworth  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  companion's  shoulder  heavily. 

"  Come  up  to  the  Works,  lad,"  he  said,  "  and  let's  have 
a  bit  of  a  talk." 

His  voice  and  his  touch  had  something  in  common. 
Murdoch  understood  them  both.  There  was  no  need  for 
clearer  speech. 

"Why  there?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  quiet  there.     I've  a  fancy  for  it." 

"  I  have  no  fancy  against  it.  As  well  there  as  any 
where  else." 

"  Aye,"  said  Haworth.   "  Not  only  as  well,  but  better." 

He  led  the  way  into  his  own  room  and  struck  a  light. 
He  flung  his  keys  upon  the  table  ;  they  struck  it  with  a 
heavy  clang.  Then  he  spoke  his  first  words  since  they 
had  turned  from  the  gate-way. 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  "  not  only  as  well,  but  better.  I'm  at 
home  here,  if  I'm  out  everywhere  else.  The  place  knows 

me  and  I  know  it.  I'm  best  man  here,  by !  if  Fm 

out  everywhere  else." 

He  sat  down  at  the  table  and  rested  his  chin  upon  his 
hand.  His  hand  shook,  and  his  forehead  was  clammy. 


AT  AN  END.  161 

Murdoch  threw  himself  into  the  chair  opposite  to  him. 

"Go  on,"  he  said.     " Say  what  you  have  to  say." 

Haworth  bent  forward  a  little. 

"  You've  got  on  better  than  I'd  have  thought,  lad,"  he 
said, — "  better  than  I'd  have  thought." 

"  What !  "  hoarsely.  "  Does  she  treat  me  as  she  treats 
other  men  ? " 

"  Nay,"  said  Haworth,  "  not  as  she  treats  me— by  the 
Lord  Harry  ! " 

The  deadly  bitterness  which  possessed  him  was  terri 
ble  ;  he  was  livid  with  it. 

"  I've  thought  of  a  good  many,"  he  said.  "  I've  looked 
on  at  'em  as  they  stood  round  her — chaps  of  her  own  sort, 
with  money  and  the  rest  of  it ;  but  I  never  thought  of 
you — not  once." 

"  No,"  said  Murdoch,  "  I  dare  say  not." 

"  No — not  once,"  the  man  repeated.  "  Get  up,  and 
let's  take  a  look  at  you,"  he  said.  "  Happen  I've  not  had 
the  right  notion  on  you." 

"Don't  say  anything  you'll  repent,"  said  Murdoch. 
"  It's  bad  enough  as  it  is." 

But  his  words  were  like  chaff  before  the  wind. 

"You!"  cried  the  man.  "You  were  the  chap  that 
knew  naught  of  women's  ways.  You'd  scarce  look  one 
on  'em  in  the  face.  You're  not  the  build  I  thought  they 
took  to." 

"  You  told  me  that  once  before,"  said  Murdoch,  with  a 
bitter  laugh.  "  I've  not  forgotten  it." 

Haworth's  clenched  fist  fell  upon  the  table  with  a  force 
which  made  the  keys  ring. 

"Blast  you!"  he  said.  "  You'ie  nigher  to  her  now 
than  me — now  !  " 

"  Then,"  Murdoch  answered,  "  you  may  give  up." 


162  "HAWORT&8" 

"  Give  up ! "  was  the  reply.  "  Nay,  not  that,  my  lad. 
I've  not  come  to  that  yet." 

Then  his  rage  broke  forth  again. 

u  You  to  be  going  there  on  the  quiet ! "  he  cried. 
tl  You  to  be  making  way  with  her,  and  finding  her  easy 
to  please,  and  priding  yourself  on  it !  " 

"  /  please  her  !  "  said  Murdoch.     "  /pride  myself ! " 

He  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  floor. 

"  You're  mad  !  "  he  said.     "  Mad  ! " 

Haworth  checked  himself  to  stare  at  him. 

"  What  did  you  go  for,"  he  asked,  "  if  it  wasn't  for 
that?" 

Murdoch  stopped  in  his  walk.  He  turned  himself 
about. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know." 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said,  in  a  hushed  voice,  after  the 
pause  which  followed, — "do  you  think  I  expect  any 
thing  ?  Do  you  think  I  look  forward  or  backward  ? 
Can  you  understand  that  it  is  enough  as  it  stands — 
enough  ? " 

Haworth  still  stared  at  him  dully. 

"  Nay,"  he  returned,  "  that  I  cannot." 

"  /  to  stand  before  her  as  a  man  with  a  best  side  which 
might  win  her  favor !  What  is  there  in  me,  that  she 
should  give  me  a  thought  when  I  am  not  near  her? 
What  have  I  done  ?  What  has  my  life  been  worth  ?  It 
may  be  nothing  in  the  end  !  Good  God  !  nothing  !  " 

He  said  it  almost  as  if  stunned.  For  the  moment  he 
was  overwhelmed,  and  had  forgotten. 

"  You're  nigher  to  her  than  I  am,"  said  Haworth. 
"You  think  because  you're  one  o'  the  gentleman  sort " 

"  Gentleman !  "  said  Murdoch,  speculatively.  "la 
gentleman  ?  " 


AT  AN  END.  163 

"  Aye,  damn  you,"  said  Haworth,  bitterly,  "  and  you 
know  it." 

The  very  words  seemed  to  rouse  him.  He  shook  his 
clenched  hand. 

"  That's  it !  "  he  cried.  "  There's  where  it  is.  You've 
got  it  in  you,  and  you  know  it — and  she  knows  it  too ! " 

"  I  have  never  asked  myself  whether  I  was  or  not," 
said  Murdoch.  "  I  have  not  cared.  What  did  it  matter  ? 
What  you  said  just  now  was  true,  after  all.  I  know  noth 
ing  of  women.  I  know  little  enough  of  men.  I  have 
been  a  dull  fellow,  I  think,  and  slow  to  learn.  I  can 
only  take  what  comes." 

He  came  back  to  the  table,  and  threw  himself  into  his 
chair. 

"  Does  either  of  us  know  what  we  came  here  for  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"We  came  to  talk  it  over,"  was  Haworth's  answer, 
"  and  we've  done  it." 

"  Then,  if  we  have  done  it,  let  us  go  our  ways." 

"  Nay,  not  yet.     I've  summat  more  to  say." 

"  Say  it,"  Murdoch  replied,  "and  let  us  have  it  over." 

"  It's  this,"  he  returned.  "  You're  a  different  chap 
from  what  I  took  you  for — a  different  chap.  I  never 
thought  of  you — not  once." 

"  You've  said  that  before." 

"  Aye,"  grimly,  "  I've  said  it  before.  Like  enough  I 
shall  say  it  again.  It  sticks  to  me.  We've  been  good 
friends,  after  a  manner,  and  that  makes  it  stick  to  me. 
I  don't  say  you're  to  blame.  I  haven't  quite  made  the 
thing  out  yet.  We're  of  a  different  build,  and — there's 
been  times  before  when  I  haven't  quite  been  up  to  you. 
But  we've  been  friends,  after  a  manner,  and  now  th' 
time's  come  when  we're  done  with  that." 


"HAWORTH'8." 

"  Done  with  it ! "  repeated  Murdoch,  mechanically. 

"  Aye,"  meeting  his  glance  fully,  "  done  with  it ! 
We'll  begin  fair  and  square,  lad.  It's  done  with.  Do 
you  think,"  with  deadly  coolness,  "  I'd  stop  at  aught  if 
tli'  time  come  ?  " 

He  rose  a  little  from  his  seat,  bending  forward. 

"  Naught's  never  come  in  my  way,  yet,  that's  stopped 
me,"  he  said.  "  Things  has  gone  agen  me  and  I've  got 
th'  best  on  'em  in  one  way  or  another.  I've  not  minded 
how.  I've  gone  on  till  I've  reached  this.  Naught's 
stopped  me — naught  never  shall !  " 

He  fell  back  in  his  chair  and  wiped  the  cold  sweat 
from  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said,  "  it  had  been  another  chap.  I  never 
thought  of  you — not  once." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"l   SHALL    NOT   TUEN    BACK." 

MURDOCH  went  out  into  the  night  alone.  When  he 
found  himself  outside  the  iron  gate  he  stood  still  for  a 
moment. 

"  I  will  not  go  home  }ret,"  he  said  ;  "  not  yet." 

He  knew  this  time  where  he  was  going  when  he  turned 
his  steps  upon  the  road  again.  He  had  only  left  the 
place  a  few  hours  before. 

The  moonlight  gave  it  almost  a  desolate  look,  he 
thought,  as  he  passed  through  the  entrance.  The  wind 
still  swayed  the  grass  upon  the  mounds  fitfully,  and  the 
headstones  cast  darker  shadows  upon  them.  There  was 
no  shadow  upon  the  one  under  which  Stephen  Murdoch 
rested.  It  lay  in  the  broad  moonlight.  Murdoch  noticed 
this  as  he  stopped  beside  it.  He  sat  down  upon  the  grass, 
just  as  he  had  done  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Better  not  go  home,  just  yet,"  he  said  again.  "  There 
is  time  enough." 

Suddenly  an  almost  unnatural  calmness  had  fallen  upon 
him.  His  passions  and  uncertainties  of  the  past  few 
months  seemed  small  things.  He  had  reached  a  climax 
and  for  a  moment  there  seemed  time  enough.  He 
thought  of  the  past  almost  coldly— going  over  the  ground 


166  "HAWORTH'S" 

mentally,  step  by  step.  It  was  as  if  he  thought  of  the  do 
ings  of  another  man — one  who  was  younger  and  simpler 
and  whose  life  was  now  over. 

"  There  are  a  good  many  things  that  are  done  with,"  he 
said  mechanically,  recalling  Haworth's  words. 

He  thought  of  the  model  standing  in  its  old  place  in 
the  empty  room.  It  was  a  living  thing  awaiting  his 
coining.  The  end  might  be  anything — calamity,  failure, 
death ! — but  to-night  he  had  taken  his  first  step  toward 
that  end. 

"  To-night  I  shall  begin  as  he  began,"  he  thought ;  "  to 
night." 

He  threw  himself  full  length  upon  the  grass,  clasping 
his  hands  beneath  his  head,  his  face  turned  upward  to 
the  vast  clearness  and  depth  above  him.  He  had  known 
it  would  come  some  day,  but  he  never  thought  of  its  com 
ing  in  this  way.  The  man  who  slept  under  the  earth  at 
his  side  had  begun  with  hope ;  he  began  as  one  who 
neither  hoped  nor  feared,  yielding  only  to  a  force  stronger 
than  himself. 

He  lay  in  this  manner  looking  up  for  nearly  an  hour. 
Then  he  arose  and  stood  with  bared  head  in  the  white 
light  and  stillness. 

"  I  shall  not  turn  back,"  he  said  aloud  at  last,  as  if  to 
some  presence  near  him.  "  I  shall  not  turn  back,  at  least. 
Do  not  fear  it." 

And  he  turned  away. 

It  was  his  mother  who  opened  the  door  for  him  when 
he  reached  home. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said  to  her,  with  a  gesture  toward  the 
inner  room.  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

She  followed  him  in  silence.     Her  expression  was  cold 


"/  SHALL  NOT  TURN  BACK."  167 

and  fixed.     It  struck  him  that  she,  too,  had  lived  past 
hope  and  dread. 

She  did  not  sit  down  when  she  had  closed  the  door, 
but  stood  upright,  facing  him. 

He  spoke  hoarsely. 

"  I  am  going  upstairs,"  he  said.  "  I  told  you  once  that 
some  day  it  would  see  the  light  again  in  spite  of  us  both. 
You  can  guess  what  work  I  shall  do  to-night." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  can  guess.  I  gave  up  long 
ago." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  ;  her  eyes  dilated  a  little  as 
if  with  slow-growing  fear  of  him. 

"  I  knew  it  would  end  so,"  she  went  on.  "  I  fought 
against  my  belief  that  it  would,  but  it  grew  stronger 
every  day — every  hour.  There  was  no  other  way." 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  there  was  no  other  way." 

"  I  have  seen  it  in  your  face,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
heard  it  in  your  voice.  It  has  never  been  absent  from 
your  thoughts  a  moment — nor  mine." 

He  did  not  speak. 

"  At  first,  when  he  died " 

Her  voice  faltered  and  broke,  and  then  rose  in  a  cry 
almost  shrill. 

"  He  did  not  die  ! "  she  cried.  "  He  is  not  dead.  He 
lives  now — here  !  There  is  no  death  for  him — not  even 
death  until  it  is  done." 

She  panted  for  breath ;  her  thin  chest  rose  and  fell— 
and  yet  suddenly  she  checked  herself  and  stood  before 
him  with  her  first  strained  calm. 

"  Go,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot  hold  you.  If  there  is  an 
end  to  be  reached,  reach  it  for  God's  sake  and  let  him 
rest." 


168  "HAWORTH'S." 

"  Wish  me  God-speed,"  he  said.  "  I — have  more  to 
bear  than  you  think  of." 

For  answer  she  repeated  steadily  words  which  she  had 
uttered  before. 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  it ;  I  have  never  believed  for  one 
hour." 


CHAPTEE  XXYI. 

A    REVOLUTION. 

IN  a  month's  time  the  Broxton  Bank  was  an  established 
fact.  It  had  sprung  into  existence  in  a  manner  which 
astonished  even  its  originator.  Haworth  had  come  to 
him  in  cold  blood  and  talked  the  matter  over.  He  had 
listened  to  the  expounding  of  his  views,  and  without 
being  apparently  much  moved  by  his  eloquence,  had  still 
shown  a  disposition  to  weigh  the  plan,  and  having  given 
a  few  days  to  deliberation,  he  had  returned  a  favorable 
decision. 

"  The  thing  sounds  well,'*  he  said,  "  and  it  may  be  a 
sharp  stroke  that  way.  When  the  rest  on  'em  hear  on  it, 
it'll  set  'em  thinkin'.  Blast  'em  1  I  like  to  astonish  'em, 
an'  give  'em  summat  to  chew." 

Mr.  Ffrench  could  scarcely  believe  the  evidence  of  his 
senses.  He  had  been  secretly  conscious  of  playing  a 
minor  part  in  all  business  transactions.  His  pet  theories 
had  been  thrust  aside  as  worthy  of  small  notice.  His 
continental  experience  had  been  openly  set  at  naught. 
When  he  had  gone  to  the  trouble  of  explaining  his  ideas 
to  the  heads  of  the  various  departments,  lie  had  been  con 
scious  of  illuminating  smiles  on  the  grimy  countenances 
around  him.  His  rather  frail  physique,  his  good  breed 
ing,  his  well-modulated  voice,  had  each  been  the  subject 
of  derisive  comment. 
8 


170  "BAWOBTH'S." 

"  Gi'  him  a  pnddlin'  rake  an'  let  him  puddle  a  bit,"  he 
had  heard  a  brawny  fellow  say,  after  one  of  his  most 
practical  dissertations. 

After  his  final  interview  with  Haworth,  he  went  home 
jubilant.  At  dinner  he  could  speak  of  nothing  else.  Miss 
Ffrench  heard  the  details  from  beginning  to  end,  and  en 
joyed  them  in  a  manner  peculiarly  her  own. 

At  the  "  Who'd  ha  Thowt  it "  no  little  excitement  pre 
vailed  when  the  movement  was  discussed. 

"  A  bank  !  "  said  Foxy  Gibbs.  "  An'  wheer  did  he  get 
th'  money  to  set  up  a  bank  wi'  ?  Why,  he  getten  it  out 
o'  th'  workin'  mon,  an'  th'  sweat  o'  th'  workin'  mon's 
brow.  If  theer  wur  na  no  banks,  theer'd  be  more  money 
to  put  in  'em.  I  dunnot  believe  i'  banks  mysen.  Let  the 
brass  cerkylate — let  it  cerkylate." 

"  Aye,"  said  Mr.  Briarley,  who  had  reached  his  second 
quart,  "  let  it  cerkylate,  an'  he'll  ha'  more  comfort,  will  th' 
workin'  mon.  Theer's  too  many  on  'em,"  with  natural 
emotion.  "  They're  th'  ruin  o'  th'  country.  Theer's 
summat  wrong  wi'  'em.  If  they'd  gi'  a  chap  summat  to 
put  i'  'em  theer'd  be  some  chance  for  him  ;  but  that's  al 
ias  th'  way.  He  has  na  no  chance,  hasn't  th'  workin' 
mon — he  has  na  no " 

"  Shut  up !  "  said  Foxy  Gibbs. 

"  Eh  ?  "  inquired  the  orator,  weakly  and  uncertainly. 

"  Shut  up,  till  tha's  getten  less  beer  i'  thee !  " 

"  Shut — "  repeated  Mr.  Briarley,  winking  his  eyes 
slowly,--"  up  ? " 

He  seized  his  beer  mug  and  gazed  into  its  depths  in 
some  confusion.  A  deep  sigh  escaped  him. 

"  That's  allus  th'  road,"  he  faltered.  "  It's  th'  road  wi' 
Sararann,  an'  it's  th'  road  wi'  aw  on  'em.  He  has  no 
chance,  has  na  a  mon  as  is  misforchnit."  And  lie  happily 


A  REVOLUTION.  171 

disposed  of  the  beer  before  Janey  opened  the  door  and 
appeared  to  marshal  him  homeward. 

But  the  Broxton  Bank  was  an  established  fact,  and 
created  no  small  sensation. 

"  He  is  a  bold  fellow,  this  Haworth,"  it  was  said  among 
his  rivals,  "but  lie  will  overstep  himself  one  of  these 
days." 

"  lie's  set  up  a  bank,  has  he  ? "  shouted  Granny  Dixon, 
on  Murdoch's  first  visit  after  she  had  heard  the  story. 

"  Yes,"  Murdoch  answered. 

She  sat  glowering  at  the  fire  a  few  moments  almost 
bent  double,  and  then,  having  deluded  her  audience  into 
believing  she  had  subsided,  suddenly  started  and  came  to 
life  again  with  increased  vigor. 

"  I've  getten  my  brass  i'  th'  Manchester  Savin's,"  she 
cried,  "  an'  I'll  keep  it  theer." 

It  seemed  unnecessary  to  reply,  and  nobody  made  any 
remark  upon  this  statement  of  facts.  But  the  venerable 
matron  had  not  concluded. 

"  I'll  keep  it  theer !  "  she  repeated — "  keep  it  theer  !  I 
conna  bide  him,  no  more  than  I  can  bide  her."  And  then 
she  returned  to  her  fire,  fixing  her  great  eyes  upon  it  and 
mumbling  with  no  small  elation. 

O 

"Th'  thing'll  break  now,  for  sure,"  commented  her 
much-tried  hostess,  sardonically.  "  It  conna  stand  up 
agen  that,  i'  reason.  Haworth  ud  better  sell  th'  Works 
at  th'  start  afore  it's  too  late." 

There  had  been  some  vague  wonder  in  Murdoch's  mind 
as  to  what  the  result  of  Ilaworth's  outburst  against  him 
self  would  be. 

The  first  time  he  found  himself  confronting  him  as  he 
went  to  his  work-room  he  spoke  to  him  : 

"  You  said  once,"  he  remarked,  "  that  you  had  kept 


172  "HAWORTH'8." 

tliis  room  empty  because  you  did  not  care  to  be  at  close 
quarters  with  every  man.  Now " 

"  Get  thee  in,  my  lad,"  he  interrupted,  dryly.  "  It 
suits  me  well  enow  to  ha'  you  nigh  me.  Never  fear  that." 

The  only  outward  change  made  was  in  his  manner, 
lie  went  about  his  labor  with  a  deadly  persistence.  He 
came  early  and  went  home  late.  The  simplest  "  hand  " 
saw  that  some  powerful  force  was  at  work.  He  was  silent 
and  harder  in  his  rule  of  those  under  him.  He  made 
closer  bargains  and  more  daring  plans.  Men  who  had 
been  his  rivals  began  to  have  a  kind  of  fear  of  him.  All 
lie  took  in  hand  throve. 

"  He  is  a  wonderful  fellow,"  said  Ffrench  to  his  friends. 
"  Wonderful — wonderful !  " 

Even  the  friends  in  question  who  were,  some  of  them, 
county  magnates  of  great  dignity,  began  to  find  their 
opinion  of  the  man  shaken.  In  these  days  there  was 
actually  nothing  to  complain  of.  The  simple  little  coun 
try  woman  reigned  in  his  household.  She  attended  the 
Broxton  Chapel  and  dispensed  her  innocent  charities  on 
all  sides.  Finally  a  dowager  of  high  degree  (the  patron 
ess  of  a  charitable  society),  made  the  bold  move  of  calling 
upon  her  for  a  subscription. 

"  It  weren't  as  hard  to  talk  to  her,  Jem,  as  I'd  have 
thought,"  said  Mrs.  Haworth  afterward.  "  She  began  to 
tell  me  about  the  poor  women  as  suffers  so,  an'  somehow 
I  forgot  about  her  bein'  so  grand.  I  couldn't  think  of 
nothin'  but  the  poor  creturs  an'  their  pain,  an'  when  I 
come  to  sign  my  name  my  'and  trembled  so  an'  my  eyes 
was  that  full  I  couldn't  hardly  tell  what  I'd  put  down. 
To  think  of  them  poor  things " 

"  How  much  did  you  give  her  ? "  asked  Haworth. 

"  I  give  her  ten  pound,  my  dear,  an' " 


A  REVOLUTION.  173 

He  pulled  out  a  bank-note  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"Go  to  her  to-morrow  and  give  her  that,"  he  said. 
"  Happen  it  '11  be  sum  mat  new  fur  her  to  get  fifty  at  a 
stroke." 

So  it  began  to  be  understood  that  the  master  of  "  Ha- 
worth's  "  was  a  bugbear  with  redeeming  points  after  all. 
The  Broxton  Bank  had  its  weight  too,  and  the  new  cot 
tages  which  it  was  necessary  to  build. 

"  It  is  to  Haworth  after  all  that  you  owe  the  fact  that 
the  place  is  growing,"  said  Ffrench. 

There  came  an  evening,  when  on  entering  the  drawing- 
room  of  a  county  potentate  with  whom  she  and  her  father 
were  to  dine,  Rachel  Ffrench  found  herself  looking  di 
rectly  at  Haworth,  who  stood  in  the  center  of  a  group  of 
guests.  They  were  talking  to  him  with  an  air  of  great 
interest  and  listening  to  his  off-hand  replies  with  actual 
respect.  Suddenly  the  tide  had  turned.  Before  the 
evening  had  passed  the  man  was  a  lion,  and  all  the  more 
a  lion  because  he  had  been  so  long  tabooed.  He  went  in 
to  dinner  with  the  lady  patroness,  and  she  afterward  an 
nounced  her  intention  of  calling  upon  his  mother  in  state. 

"  There  is  a  rough  candor  about  the  man,  my  dear," 
she  said,  "  which  one  must  respect,  and  it  appears  that  he 
has  really  reformed." 

There  was  no  difficulty  after  this.  Mrs.  Haworth  had 
visitors  every  day,  who  came  and  examined  her  and  won 
dered,  and,  somehow,  were  never  displeased  by  her  tender 
credulity.  She  admired  them  all  and  believed  in  them, 
and  was  always  ready  with  tears  and  relief  for  their  pen 
sioners  and  charities. 

'•'Don't  thank  me,  ma'am,"  she  would  say.  "Don't 
never  thank  me,  for  it's  not  me  that  deserves  it,  but  him 
that's  so  ready  and  generous  to  every  one  that  suffers. 


174  "HAWORTH'S." 

There  never  was  such  a  kind  heart  before,  it  seems  to 
me,  ma'am,  nor  such  a  lovin'  one." 

Haworth's  wealth,  his  success,  his  open-handeduess,  his 
past  sins,  were  the  chief  topics  of  conversation.  To  speak 
of  Broxton  was  to  speak  of  the  man  who  had  made  it 
what  it  was  by  his  daring  and  his  power,  and  who  was  an 
absolute  ruler  over  it  and  its  inhabitants. 

Ffrench  was  a  triumphant  man.  He  was  a  potentate 
also ;  he  could  ride  his  hobby  to  the  sound  of  applause. 
When  he  expatiated  upon  "  processes,"  he  could  gain  an 
audience  which  was  attentive  and  appreciative.  He  had 
not  failed  this  time,  at  least,  and  was  put  down  as  a 
shrewd  fellow  after  all. 

In  the  festivities  which  seemed,  somehow,  the  result  of 
this  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  Rachel  Ffrench  was 
naturally  a  marked  figure.  Among  the  women,  with 
whom  she  was  not  exactly  a  favorite,  it  was  still  conceded 
that  she  was  not  a  young  woman  whom  it  was  easy  to  ig 
nore.  Her  beauty — of  which  it  was  impossible  to  say 
that  she  was  conscious— was  of  a  type  not  to  be  rivaled. 
When  she  entered  a  room,  glancing  neither  to  right  nor 
left,  those  who  had  seen  her  before  unavoidably  looked 
again,  and  those  who  had  not  were  silent  as  she  passed. 
There  was  a  delicate  suggestion  of  indifference  in  her 
manner,  which  might  be  real  or  might  not.  Her  de 
meanor  toward  Haworth  never  altered,  even  to  the  extent 
of  the  finest  shadow  of  change. 

When  they  were  in  a  room  together  his  eye  followed 
her  with  stealthy  vigilance,  and  her  knowledge  of  the 
fact  was  not  a  disturbing  one.  The  intensity  of  her  con 
sciousness  was  her  great  strength.  She  was  never  unpre 
pared.  When  he  approached  her  she  met  him  with  her 
little  untranslatable  smile.  He  might  be  bold,  or  awk- 


A  DEVOLUTION.  175 

ward,  or  desperate,  but  he  never  found  her  outwardly 
conscious  or  disturbed,  or  a  shade  colder  or  warmer. 

It  was  only  natural  that  it  should  not  be  long  before 
others  saw  what  she,  seeing,  showed  no  knowledge  of.  It 
was  easily  seen  that  he  made  no  effort  at  concealment. 
His  passion  revealed  itself  in  every  look  and  gesture.  He 
could  not  have  controlled  it  if  he  would,  and  would  not 
if  he  could. 

"  Let  'em  see,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It's  naught  to 
them.  It's  betwixt  her  and  me."  He  even  bore  himself 
with  a  sullen  air  of  defiance  at  times,  knowing  that  he 
had  gained  one  thing  at  least.  He  was  nearer  to  her  in 
one  way  than  any  other  man  ;  he  might  come  and  go 
AS  he  chose,  he  saw  her  day  after  day,  he  knew  her  in 
goings  and  out-comings.  The  success  which  had  restored 
her  father's  fortunes  was  his  success. 

"  I  can  make  her  like  a  queen  among  'em,"  he  said, — 
"like  a  queen,  by  George, — and  I'll  do  it." 

Every  triumph  which  fell  to  him  he  regarded  only  as  it 
would  have  weight  in  her  eyes.  When  society  opened  its 
doors  to  him,  he  said  to  himself,  "  Now  she'll  see  that  I 
can  stand  up  with  the  best  of  'em,  gentlemen  or  no  gen 
tlemen  ! " 

When  he  suddenly  found  himself  a  prominent  figure— 
a  man  deferred  to  and  talked  of,  he  waited  with  secret 
feverishness  to  see  what  the  effect  upon  her  would  be. 

"  It's  what  women  like,"  he  said.  "  It's  what  she  likes 
more  than  most  on  'em.  It'll  be  bound  to  tell  in  the 
end."  / 

He  labored  as  he  had  never  labored  before ;  his  ambi 
tions  were  boundless ;  he  strove  and  planned  and  ven 
tured,  lying  awake  through  long  hours  of  the  night,  pon 
dering  and  building,  his  daring  growing  with  his  success. 


176  "HAWORTH'S." 

There  occurred  one  thing,  however,  which  he  had  not 
bargained  for.  In  his  laudable  enthusiasm  Mr.  Ffrench 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  sound  the  praises  of  his 
protege.  His  belief  in  him  had  increased  instead  of 
diminished  with  time,  as  he  had  been  forced  regretfully 
to  acknowledge  had  been  the  case  during  the  eras  of  the 
young  man  from  Manchester  and  his  fellows.  He  had 
reason  to  suspect  that  a  climax  had  been  reached  and  that 
his  hopes  might  be  realized.  It  is  not  every  man  who 
keeps  on  hand  a  genius.  Naturally  his  friends  heard  of 
Murdoch  often.  Those  who  came  to  the  Works  were 
taken  to  his  work-room  as  to  a  point  of  interest.  He  be 
came  in  time  a  feature,  and  was  spoken  of  with  a  mixture  of 
curiosity  and  bewilderment.  To  each  visitor  Ffrench  told, 
in  strict  confidence,  the  story  of  his  father  with  due  effect. 

"  And  it's  my  impression,"  he  always  added,  "  that  we 
shall  hear  more  of  this  invention  one  of  these  days.  He 
is  a  singular  fellow — reserved  and  not  easy  to  read — just 
the  man  to  carry  a  purpose  in  his  mind  and  say  nothing 
of  it,  and  in  the  end  startle  the  world  by  accomplishing 
what  he  has  held  in  view." 

Finally,  upon  one  occasion,  when  his  daughter  was 
making  her  list  of  invitations  for  a  dinner  party  they 
were  to  give,  he  turned  to  her  suddenly,  with  some  hesita 
tion  in  his  manner. 

"  Oh — by  the  way,"  he  said,  "  there's  Murdoch,  we've 
never  had  Murdoch." 

She  wrote  the  name  without  comment. 

"  Who  next  ? "  she  asked  after  having  done  it. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  waveringly,  "  there  is  really 
nothing  which  could  be  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  our  in 
viting  him — really  nothing.  He  is — he  is  all  that  we 
could  wish." 


A  INVOLUTION.  177 

The  reply  he  received  staggered  him. 

"  It  is  nonsense,"  she  said,  looking  up  calmly,  "  to  talk 
of  obstacles.  I  should  have  invited  him  long  ago." 

"  You  !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  Would  you— really  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.     "  Why  not «  " 

«  Why— not  ?  "    he  repeated,  feebly.     "  I   don't  know 

why  not.     I  thought  that  perhaps "  and  then  he  broke 

off.     "  I  wish  I  had  known  as  much  before,"  he  added. 

When  he  received  the  invitation,  Murdoch  declined  it. 

"  I  should  only  be  out  of  place,"  he  said,  candidly  to 
Miss  Ffrench.  "I  should  know  nobody  and  nobody 
would  know  me.  Why  should  I  come  ?  " 

' '  There  is  a  very  good  reason  why  you  should  come," 
answered  the  young  woman  with  perfect  composure  "  1 
am.  the  reason." 

There  was  no  further  discussion  of  the  point.  He  was 
present  and  Haworth  sat  opposite  to  him  at  the  table. 

"  It's  the  first  time  for  him  f  "  said  Haworth  to  Miss 
Ffrench  afterward. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  he  has  dined  here  with  other  peo 
ple,"  she  answered.  "  Have  you  a  reason  for  asking  ?  " 

He  held  his  coffee-cup  in  his  hand  and  glanced  over  it 
across  the  room, 

"  He  is  not  like  the  rest  on  'em,"  he  said,  "  but  he  stands 
it  pretty  well,  by  George ! " 
8* 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE    BEGINNING. 

FOK  some  time  there  had  hung  over  the  conduct  of 
Mr.  Briarley  an  air  of  deep  mystery.  The  boon  of  his 
society  had  been  granted  to  his  family  even  less  fre 
quently  than  ever.  His  habit  of  sudden  and  apparently 
unaccountable  disappearance  from  the  home  circle  after 
or  even  in  the  midst  of  an  argument  had  become  more 
than  usually  pronounced.  He  went  out  every  night  and 
invariably  returned  under  the  influence  of  malt  liquor. 

"  Wheer  he  gets  th'  brass  bangs  me,""  said  Mrs.  Briarley. 
"  He  does  na  tak'  it  out  o'  his  wage,  that's  certain,  fur  he 
has  na  been  a  ha'penny  short  fur  three  week,  an'  he  does 
na  get  it  o'  tick,  that  I  know.  Bannett  at  th'  c  Public  '  is 
na  a  foo'.  Wheer  does  he  get  th'  brass  fro'  ? " 

But  this  was  not  easily  explained.  On  being  catechised 
Mr.  Briarley  either  shed  tears  of  penitence  or  shook  his 
head  with  deep  solemnity  of  meaning.  At  times  when 
he  began  to  shake  it — if  the  hour  was  late  and  his  condition 
specially  foggy — he  was  with  difficulty  induced  to  stop 
shaking  it,  but  frequently  continued  to  do  so  with  pro 
tracted  fervor  and  significance  gradually  decreasing  until 
he  fell  asleep.  When  he  was  sober  he  was  timorous  and 
abstracted.  He  started  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  door, 
and  apparently  existed  in  a  state  of  secret  expectation  and 
alarm. 


THE  BEGINNING.  179 

"  I  conna  tell  thee,  Sararann,"  he  would  say.  "  At 
least,"  with  some  tremor,  "  I  wunnot  tell  thee  just  yet- 
Thou'lt  know  i'  toime." 

He  did  not  patronize  the  "  Who'd  ha'  Thowt  it "  as 
much  as  formerly,  in  these  days,  Janey  discovered.  He 
evidently  got  the  beer  elsewhere,  and  at  somebody's  expense. 
His  explanation  of  this  was  a  brilliant  and  happy  one,  but 
it  was  only  offered  once,  in  consequence  of  the  mode  of 
its  reception  by  his  hearers.  He  presented  it  suddenly 
one  night  after  some  moments  of  silence  and  mental  re 
search. 

"  Theer's  a  gentlemen  as  is  a  friend  o'  moine,"  he  said, 
"  as  has  had  uncommon  luck.  His  heirs  has  deed  an'  left 
him  a  forchin,  an'  he's  come  into  it,  an'  he's  very  mich 
tuk  wi'  me.  I  dunnot  know  as  I  ivver  seed  ony  one  as 
mich  tuk  wi'  me,  Sararann — an'  his  heirs  deein'  an'  leavin' 
him  a  forchin — that  theer's  how  it  is,  Sararann, — that 
theer's  how  it  is." 

"  Tha  brazant  leer ! "  cried  Mrs.  Briarley,  aghast. 
"  Tha  brazant  leer !  Get  out  wi'  thee  !  "  in  an  outburst 
of  indignation.  "  Thee  an'  thy  forchins  an'  heirs  deem' — 
as  if  it  wur  na  bad  enow  at  th'  start.  A  noice  chap  tha 
art  to  set  thysen  up  to  know  gentlefolks  wi'  heirs  to  dee  an' 
leave  'em  brass.  Eh !  Bless  us  !  what  art  tha  comin'  to? " 

The  result  was  not  satisfactory,  as  Mr.  Briarley  felt 
keenly. 

"  Tha  hast  getten  no  confydence  i'  me,  Sararann,"  he 
said  in  weak  protest.  "  Tha  has  na  no  faith — nor  yet,"  fol 
lowing  the  train  of  thought  with  manifest  uncertainty, — 
"  nor  yet  no  works." 

The  situation  was  so  painful,  however,  that  he  made  no 
further  effort  of  the  imagination  to  elucidate  the  matter, 
and  it  remained  temporarily  obscured  in  mystery. 


180  "HA  WORTH'S" 

Only  temporarily,  however.  A  few  weeks  afterward 
Ffrench  came  down  to  the  Works  in  great  excitement, 
lie  went  to  Ha  worth's  room,  and  finding  him  there,  shut 
the  door  and  almost  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"What's  up?"  demanded  Haworth,  with  some  impa 
tience.  "  What's  up,  man  ?  " 

"You  haven't  heard  the  report?"  Ffrench  answered, 
tremulously.  "  It  hasn't  reached  you  yet  ? " 

"  I've  heard  nowt  to  upset  me.  Out  with  it !  What's 
up?" 

He  was  plainly  startled,  and  lost  a  shade  of  color,  but 
he  held  himself  boldly.  Ffrench  explained  himself  with 
trepidation. 

"  The  hands  in  Marfort  and  Molton  and  Howton  are  on 
the  strike,  and  those  in  Dillup  and  Burton  are  plainly 
about  to  follow  suit.  I've  just  got  a  Manchester  paper, 
which  says  the  lookout  is  bad  all  over  the  country.  Meet 
ings  have  been  going  on  in  secret  for  some  time." 

He  stopped  and  sat  staring  at  his  partner.  Haworth 
was  deathly  pale.  He  seemed,  for  a  moment,  to  lack 
breath,  and  then  suddenly  the  dark  color  rushed  to  his 
face  again. 

"  By "  he  began,  and  stopped  with  the  oath  upon 

his  lips. 

"Don't  swear,  for  pity's  sake,"  broke  forth  Ffrench, 
finding  courage  for  protest  in  his  very  desperation.  "  It's 
not  the  time  for  it.  Let's  look  the  thing  in  the  face." 

"  Look  it  in  the  face,"  Haworth  repeated.  "  Aye, 
let's." 

He  said  the  words  with  a  fierce  sneer. 

"  Aye,  look  it  in  the  face,  man,"  he  said  again.  "  That's 
th'  thing  to  do." 

He  bent  forward,  extending  his  hand  across  the  table. 


THE  BEGINNING.  181 

"  Let's  see  th'  paper,"  he  demanded. 

Ffrench  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  read  the  paragraphs  re 
ferred  to  in  silence.  When  he  had  finished  them,  he 
folded  the  paper  again  mechanically. 

"They  might  have  done  it  last  year  and  welcome, 
blast  'em ! "  he  said. 

Ffrench  began  to  tremble. 

"  You've  ventured  a  good  deal  of  late,  Haworth,"  he 
said,  weakly.  "You've  done  some  pretty  daring  things, 
you  know — and " 

Haworth  turned  on  him. 

"  If  I  lose  all  I've  made,"  he  said,  hoarsely, "  shall  I  lose 
aught  of  yours,  lad  ? " 

Ffrench  did  not  reply.  He  sat  playing  with  his  watch- 
chain  nervously.  He  had  cause  for  anxiousness  on  his 
own  score,  and  his  soul  quaked  within  him. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ? "  he  ventured  at  last. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  be  done,"  Haworth  an 
swered,  pushing  his  chair  back.  "  Stop  it  here — at  th' 
start." 

"Stop  it?"  Ffrench  echoed,  in  amazement. 

"Aye,  stop  it." 

He  got  up  and  took  his  hat  down  and  put  it  on. 

"  I'm  going  round  th'  place  and  about  th'  yards  and  into 
th'  town,"  he  said.  "  There's  naught  for  you  to  do  but 
keep  quiet.  Th'  quieter  you  keep  th'  better  for  us.  Go 
on  as  if  you'd  heard  naught.  Stay  here  a  bit,  and  then 
walk  over  to  th'  bank.  Look  alive,  man  ! " 

He  went  out  and  left  Ffrench  alone.  In  the  passage 
he  came  upon  a  couple  of  men  who  were  talking  together 
in  low  voices.  They  started  at  sight  of  him  and  walked 
away  slowly. 

He  went  first  to  the  engine-room.     There  he  found 


182  « HAWORTHW 

Floxham  and  Murdoch  talking  also.  The  old  engineer 
wore  an  irritable  air,  and  was  plainly  in  a  testy  mood. 
Murdoch  looked  fagged  and  pale.  Of  late  he  was  often 
so.  As  Haworth  entered  he  turned  toward  him,  uttering 
an  exclamation. 

"  He  is  here  now,"  he  said.     "  That  is  well  enough." 

Floxham  gave  him  a  glance  from  under  his  bent,  bushy 
brows. 

"  Aye,"  he  answered.     "  We  may  as  well  out  wi'  it/' 

He  touched  his  cap  clumsily. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  said  to  Murdoch,  "an'  ha'  it  over." 

Murdoch  spoke  in  a  cool,  low  voice. 

"  I  have  found  out,"  he  said,  "  that  there  is  trouble  on 
foot.  I  began  to  suspect  it  a  week  ago.  Some  rough  fel 
lows  from  Manchester  and  Molton  have  been  holding  secret 
meetings  at  a  low  place  here.  Some  of  the  hands  have 
been  attending  them.  Last  night  a  worse  and  larger  gang 
came  and  remained  in  the  town.  They  are  here  now. 
They  mean  mischief  at  least,  and  there  are  reports  afloat 
that  strikes  are  breaking  out  on  all  sides." 

Haworth  turned  abruptly  to  Floxham. 

"  Where  do  you  stand  ?  "  he  asked  roughly. 

The  old  fellow  laid  his  grimy  hand  upon  his  engine. 

"  I  stand  here,  my  lad,"  he  answered.  a  That's  wheer — 
an'  I'll  stick  to  it,  unions  or  no  unions." 

"  That's  the  worst  side  of  the  trouble,"  said  Murdoch. 
"  Those  who  would  hold  themselves  aloof  from  the  rest 
will  be  afraid  of  the  trades  unions.  If  worst  comes  to 
worst,  their  very  lives  will  be  in  danger.  They  know  that, 
and  so  do  we." 

"  Aye,  lad,"  said  Floxham,  "  an'  tha'rt  reet  theer." 

Ilaworth  ground  his  teeth  and  swore  under  his  breath. 
Then  he  spoke  to  Murdoch. 


THE  BEGINNING.  183 

"  How  is  it  going  on  here  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Badly  enough,  in  a  quiet  way.  You  had  better  go  and 
see  for  yourself." 

He  went  out,  walking  from  room  to  room,  through  the 
yards  and  wherever  men  were  at  work.  Here  and  there 
a  place  was  vacant.  Where  the  work  went  on,  it  went  on 
dully;  he  saw  dogged  faces  and  subdued  ones;  those  who 
looked  up  as  he  passed  wore  an  almost  deprecatory  air ; 
those  who  did  not  look  up  at  all,  bent  over  their  tasks  with 
an  expression  which  was  at  least  negatively  defiant.  His 
keen  eye  discovered  favorable  symptoms,  however ;  those 
who  were  in  evil  mood  were  his  worst  workmen — men 
who  had  their  off  days  of  drunken  stupor  and  idleness, 
and  the  heads  of  departments  were  plainly  making  an 
effort  to  stir  briskly  and  ignore  the  presence  of  any  cloud 
upon  their  labor. 

By  the  time  he  had  made  the  rounds  he  had  grasped  the 
situation  fully.  The  strait  was  desperate,  but  not  as  bad 
as  it  might  have  been. 

"  I  may  hold  'em,"  he  said  to  himself,  between  his  teeth. 
"  And  by  the  Lord  Harry  I'll  try  hard  for  it." 

He  went  over  to  the  bank  and  found  Ffrench  in  his 
private  room,  pale  and  out  of  all  courage. 

"  There  will  be  a  run  on  us  by  this  time  to-morrow,"  he 
said.  "  I  see  signs  of  it  already." 

"  Will  there  ? "  said  Haworth.  "  We'll  see  about  that. 
Wait  a  bit,  my  lad  !  " 

He  went  into  the  town  and  spent  an  hour  or  so  taking 
a  sharp  lookout.  Nothing  escaped  him.  There  were 
more  idlers  than  usual  about  the  ale  houses,  and  more 
than  once  he  passed  two  or  three  women  talking  together 
with  anxious  faces  and  in  undertones.  As  he  was  passing 
one  such  group  one  of  the  women  saw  him  and  started. 


184  "HAWORTH'S." 

"  Theer  he  is ! "  she  said,  and  her  companion  turned 
with  her  and  they  both  stopped  talking  to  look  after 
him. 

Before  returning  he  went  up  to  his  partner's  house. 
He  asked  for  Miss  Ffrench  and  was  shown  into  the  room 
where  she  sat  writing  letters.  She  neither  looked  pleased 
nor  displeased  when  she  saw  him,  but  rose  to  greet  him  at 
once.  She  gave  him  a  rather  long  look. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked. 

Suddenly  he  felt  less  bold.  The  heat  of  his  excitement 
failed  to  sustain  him.  He  was  all  unstrung. 

"  I've  come  to  tell  you  not  to  go  out,"  he  said.  "  There's 
trouble  afoot — in  the  trade.  There's  no  knowing  how  it'll 
turn  out.  There's  a  lot  of  chaps  in  th'  town  who  are  not 
in  th'  mood  to  see  aught  that'll  fret  'em.  They're  ready 
for  mischief,  and  have  got  drink  in  'em.  Stay  you  here 
until  we  see  which  way  th'  thing's  going." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  demanded,  "  that  there  are  signs 
of  a  strike  ?  " 

"  There's  more  than  signs  of  it,"  he  answered,  sullenly. 
u  Before  night  the  whole  place  will  be  astir." 

She  moved  across  the  room  and  pulled  the  bell.  A  ser 
vant  answered  the  summons  instantly. 

"  I  want  the  carriage,"  she  said. 

Then  she  turned  to  Haworth  with  a  smile  of  actual 
triumph. 

"  Nothing  would  keep  me  at  home,"  she  said.  "  I 
shall  drive  through  the  town  and  back  again.  Do  you 
think  I  will  let  them  fancy  that  /  am  afraid  of  them  ?  " 

"  You're  not  afraid  ?  "  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

u  I  afraid  \ "  she  answered,  "  I?  " 

"  Wait  here,"  she  added.  She  left  the  room,  and  in 
less  than  ten  minutes  returned.  He  had  never  before 


THE  BEGINNING.  185 

seen  in  her  the  fire  he  saw  then.  There  was  a  spark  of 
light  in  her  eyes,  a  color  on  her  cheek.  She  had  chosen 
her  dress  with  distinct  care  for  its  luxurious  richness. 
His  exclamation,  as  she  entered  buttoning  her  long,  deli 
cate  glove,  was  a  repressed  oath.  lie  exulted  in  her. 
His  fear  for  her  was  gone,  and  only  this  exultation  re 
mained. 

"  You've  made  up  your  mind  to  that  3 "  he  said.  He 
wanted  to  make  her  say  more. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  your  mother,"  she  answered. 
"  That  will  take  me  outside  of  the  town,  then  I  shall  drive 
back  again — slowly.  They  shall  understand  me  at  least." 

She  let  him  lead  her  out  to  the  carriage,  which  by  this 
time  was  waiting.  After  she  was  seated  in  it,  she  bent 
forward  and  spoke  to  him. 

(f  Tell  my  father  where  I  am  going  and  why,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A    SPEECH. 

WHEN  he  returned  to  the  Works  the  noon-bell  was 
ringing,  and  the  hands  were  crowding  through  the  gates 
on  their  way  to  their  midday  meal.  Among  those  going 
out  he  met  Floxharn,  who  spoke  to  him  as  he  passed. 

"  Theer's  some  o'  them  chaps,"  he  said,  "  as  wunnot  show 
their  faces  again." 

"  Aye,"  said  Haworth,  «  I  see  that," 

Ff rench  had  left  the  bank  and  was  pacing  up  and  down 
his  room  panic-stricken. 

"  What  have  you  heard  ? "  he  exclaimed,  turning  as 
Haworth  entered.  "  Is  it — is  it  as  bad  as  you  expected  ? " 

"  Aye,"  said  Haworth,  "  worse  and  better  too." 

"  Better  ?  "  he  faltered. 

Haworth  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  He  wore  a  look 
of  dogged  triumph. 

"  Leave  'em  to  me,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  in  th'  mood 
fur  'em  now" 

But  it  was  not  until  some  time  afterward  that  he  deliv 
ered  the  message  Rachel  Ffrench  had  intrusted  to  him. 

On  hearing  it  her  father  appeared  to  rally  a  little. 

"  It  seems  a  rather  dangerous  thing  to  do,"  he  said, 
"but — it  is  like  her.  And  perhaps,  after  all,  there  is 
something  in — in  showing  no  fear." 

And  for  a  few  moments  after  having  thought  the  inci- 


A  SPEECH.  187 

dent  over  he  became  comparatively  sanguine  and  cheer 
ful. 

As  Floxham  had  predicted,  when  the  work-bell  called 
the  hands  together  again  there  were  still  other  places 
vacant.  Mr.  Briarley,  it  may  be  observed,  had  been  ab 
sent  all  day,  and  by  this  time  was  listening  with  affection 
ate  interest  and  spasmodic  attacks  of  inopportune  enthu 
siasm  to  various  inflammatory  speeches  which  were  being 
made  at  a  beer  house. 

Toward  evening  the  work  lagged  so  that  the  over-look- 
3rs  could  no  longer  keep  up  the  semblance  of  ignorance. 
A.  kind  of  gloom  settled  upon  them  also,  and  they  went 
{tbout  with  depressed  faces. 

"  It'll  be  all  up  to-morrow,"  said  one,  "  if  there's  noth 
ing  done." 

But  something  was  done. 

Suddenly — just  before  time  for  the  last  bell  to  ring — . 
Ha  worth  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  principal  room. 

"  Lads !  "  he  shouted,  "  them  on  you  as  wants  a  speech 
from  Jem  Haworth  gather  in  th'  yard  in  five  minutes 
from  now." 

There  was  no  more  work  done.  The  bell  began  to 
ring ;  implements  were  thrown  down  and  a  shout  went 
up  from  the  crowd.  Then  there  was  a  rush  into  the  yard, 
and  in  less  than  the  five  minutes  the  out-pouring  of  the 
place  thronged  about  its  chief  doorway  where  Jem  Ha 
worth  stood  on  the  topmost  step,  looking  down,  facing 
them  all,  boldly — with  the  air  of  a  man  who  felt  his  vic 
tory  more  than  half  won." 

"  Let's  hear  what  tha'st  getten  to  say,"  cried  some  one 
well  hidden  by  the  crowd.  "  Out  wi'  it." 

"  It's  not  much,"  Haworth  shouted  back.  "  It's  this  to 
start  with.  I'm  here  to  find  out  where  you  chaps  stand." 


188  "  HAWORTH' S." 

But  there  was  no  answer  to  this.  He  knew  there  would 
be  none  and  went  on. 

"  I've  been  through  th'  place  this  morning,"  he  said, 
"  and  through  th'  town,  and  I  know  how  th'  wind  blows 
as  well  as  any  on  you.  Th'  lads  at  Marf  ort  and  Molton 
and  Dillup  are  on  th'  strike.  There's  a  bad  lookout  in 
many  a  place  besides  them.  There's  a  lot  of  fools  laying 
in  beer  and  making  speeches  down  in  Broxton ;  there 
were  some  here  this  morning  as  didn't  show  this 
afternoon.  How  many  on  you's  going  to  follow 
them?" 

Then  there  was  a  murmur  which  was  not  easy  to  un 
derstand.  It  was  a  mixture  of  sounds  defiant  and  con 
ciliatory.  Haworth  moved  forward.  He  knew  them  bet 
ter  than  they  knew  him. 

"  Pin  not  one  o'  the  model  soart,"  he  called  out.  "  I've 
not  set  up  soup  kitchens  nor  given  you  flannel  petticoats. 
I've  looked  sharp  after  you,  and  I  should  have  been  a 
fool  if  I  hadn't.  I've  let  you  alone  out  of  work  hours, 
and  I've  not  grudged  you  your  sprees,  when  they  didn't 
stand  in  my  way.  I've  done  the  square  thing  by  you,  and 
I've  done  it  by  myself.  Th'  places  I've  built  let  no  water 
in,  and  I  let  'em  to  you  as  easy  as  I  could  and  make  no 
loss.  I  didn't  build  'em  for  benevolent  purposes,  but  I've 
not  heard  one  of  you  chaps  complain  of  'em  yet.  I've 
given  you  your  dues  and  stood  by  you — and  I'll  do  it 
again,  by " 

There  was  a  silence — a  significant  breathless  one. 

"  Have  I  done  it,"  he  said,  "  or  haven't  I  ?  " 

Suddenly  the  silence  was  broken. 

"  Aye,"  there  was  a  shout,  "  aye,  lad,  yo'  ha'." 

"  Then,"  he  shouted,  "  them  as  Jem  Haworth  has  stood 
by,  let  Jem  stand  by  Jem  Haworth  !  " 


A  SPEECH.  189 

And  he  struck  his  big  fist  upon  his  open  palm  with  a 
fierce  blow,  and  stood  before  them  breathing  hard. 

He  had  the  best  metal  on  his  side  somehow,  and  the 
best  metal  carried  the  day.  The  boldness  of  his  move, 
the  fact  that  he  had  not  waited,  but  had  taken  the  lead, 
were  things  all  for  him.  Even  those  who  wavered  toward 
the  enemy  were  stirred  to  something  like  admira 
tion. 

"  But  what  about  th'  Union  ?  "  said  a  timorous  voice  in 
the  rear.  "  Theer'll  be  trouble  with  th'  Unions  as  sure 
as  we  stand  out,  Mester." 

Haworth  made  a  movement  none  of  them  understood. 
He  put  his  hand  behind  him  and  drew  from  his  hip- 
pocket  an  object  which  caused  every  man  of  them  to  give 
a  little  start  and  gasp.  They  were  used  to  simple  and 
always  convenient  modes  of  defense.  The  little  object  he 
produced  would  not  have  startled  an  American,  but  it 
startled  a  Lancashire,  audience.  It  was  of  shining  steel 
and  rose-wood,  and  its  bright  barrels  glittered  significant 
ly.  He  held  it  out  and  patted  it  lightly. 

"  That's  for  the  Union,  lads,"  he  said.  "  And  more 
like  it" 

A  few  of  the  black  sheep  moved  restlessly  and  with 
manifest  tremor.  This  was  a  new  aspect  of  affairs.  One 
of  them  suddenly  cried  out  with  much  feebleness  : 

"  Th— three  cheers  for  Haworth." 

"  Let  the  chaps  as  are  on  the  other  side  go  to  their  lot 
now,"  said  Haworth. 

But  no  one  moved. 

"  There's  some  here  that'll  go  when  th'  time  comes,"  he 
announced.  "Let  'em  tell  what  they've  heard.  Now 
lads,  the  rest  on  you  up  with  your  hands." 

The  whole  place  was  in  a  tumult.     They  held  up  their 


190  « HAWOMTH'8." 

hands  and  clenched  and  shook  them  and  shouted,  and 
here  and  there  swore  with  fluency  and  enthusiasm. 
There  were  not  six  among  them  who  were  not  fired  with 
the  general  friendly  excitement. 

"  To-morrow  morning  there'll  be  papers  posted  up, 
writ  in  Jem  Haworth's  hand  and  signed  with  his  name," 
cried  Haworth.  "  Read  'em  as  you  come  along,  lads,  and 
when  you  reach  here  I'll  be  ready  for  you." 

"  Is  it  about  th'  pistols  ? "  faltered  the  timorous 
voice. 

"  Aye,"  Haworth  answered,  "  about  th'  pistols.  Now 
go  home." 

He  turned  to  mount  the  step,  flushed  and  breathing 
fast  and  with  high-beating  pulses,  when  suddenly  he 
stopped.  Before  the  iron  gate  a  carriage  had  stopped. 
A  servant  in  livery  got  down  and  opened  the  door,  and 
Rachel  Ffrench  stepped  out.  The  hands  checked  their 
shouting  to  look  at  her.  She  came  up  the  yard  slowly 
and  with  the  setting  sun  shining  upon  her.  It  was  natu 
ral  that  they  should  gaze  at  her  as  she  approached,  though 
she  did  not  look  at  any  of  them — only  at  Haworth,  who 
waited.  They  made  a  pathway  for  her  and  she  passed 
through  it  and  went  up  the  step.  Her  rich  dress  touched 
more  than  one  man  as  she  swept  by. 

"  I  thought,"  they  heard  her  say,  "  that  I  would  call 
for  my  father." 

Then  for  the  first  time  she  looked  at  the  men.  She 
turned  at  the  top  of  the  step  and  looked  down — the  sun 
on  her  dress  and  face. 

There  was  not  a  man  among  them  who  did  not  feel  the 
look.  At  first  a  murmur  arose  and  then  an  incoherent 
cry  and  then  a  shout,  and  they  threw  up  their  caps  and 
shouted  until  they  were  hoarse. 


A  SPEECH.  191 

In  the  midst  of  it  she  turned  aside  and  went  in  with  a 
smile  on  her  lips. 

In  Haworth's  room  they  found  her  father  standing  be 
hind  the  door  with  a  startled  air. 

"What  are  they  shouting  for?"  he  asked.  "What  is 
the  matter  now  ? " 

"  I  think  /  am  the  matter,"  Miss  Ffrench  answered, 
"  though  I  scarcely  know  why.  Ah,"  giving  him  a  quiet 
glance,  "  you  are  afraid  !  " 


CHAPTEE  XXIX. 

"  SARARANN." 

THE  next  morning  there  was  an  uproar  in  the  town. 
The  strikers  from  Molton  and  Marfort  no  longer  remained 
in  the  shade.  They  presented  themselves  openly  to  the 
community  in  their  true  characters.  At  first  they  lounged 
about  in  groups  at  the  corners  and  before  the  ale-houses, 
smoking,  talking,  gesticulating,  or  wearing  sullen  faces. 
But  this  negative  state  of  affairs  did  not  last  long.  By 
eight  o'clock  the  discovery  was  made  that  something  had 
happened  in  the  night. 

In  a  score  of  prominent  places, — on  walls  and  posts, 
—there  appeared  papers  upon  which  was  written,  in  a 
large,  bold  hand,  the  following  announcement : 

"  Haworth's  lads  will  stand  by  him.  The  chaps  that  have  aught  to 
say  against  this,  let  them  remember  that  to  every  man  there's  six  bar 
rels  well  loaded,  and  to  Jem  Haworth  twelve.  Those  that  want  their 
brass  out  of  Broxton  Bank,  let  them  come  and  get  it. 

"Writ  and  signed  by 

"  JEM  HAWORTH." 

The  first  man  who  saw  it  swore  aloud  and  ran  to  call 
others.  Soon  a  select  party  stood  before  the  place  on 
which  the  card  was  posted,  confronting  it  in  different 
moods.  Some  were  scientifically  profane,  some  raged 
loudly,  some  were  silent,  one  or  two  grinned. 


"  8ARARANN."  193 

"  He  staid  up  aw  neet  to  do  that  theer,"  remarked  one 
of  these.  "  He's  getten  a  gizzard  o'  his  own,  has  Haworth. 
He's  done  it  wi'  his  own  hands." 

One  gentleman  neither  grinned  nor  swore.  His  coun 
tenance  fell  with  singular  rapidity.  This  was  Mr.  Briar- 
ley,  who  had  come  up  in  the  rear.  He  held  in  one  hano 
a  pewter  pot  which  was  half  empty.  He  had  caught  it 
up  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  from  the  table  at  which  he 
had  been  sitting  when  the  news  came. 

"  What's  in  th'  barrils?  "  he  inquired. 

The  man  he  spoke  to  turned  to  him  roughly. 

"  Powder,"  he  answered,  "  an'  lead,  tha  domned 
f  oo' ! " 

Mr.  Briarley  looked  at  his  mug  regretfully. 

"  I  thowt,"  he  said,  "  as  happen  it  mought  ha'  bin 
beer." 

Having  reflected  a  moment,  he  was  on  the  point  of 
raising  the  mug  to  his  lips  when  a  thought  struck  him. 
He  stopped  short. 

"  What's  he  goin'  to  do  wi'  em  ? "  he  quavered. 

"  Ax  him,"  was  the  grim  answer.  "  Ax  him,  lad.  He 
dunnot  say." 

"  He  is  na —  "  in  manifest  trepidation,  "  he  is  na — goin' 
to— to  fire  'em  off !  " 

"  He'll  fire  'em  off,  if  he  comes  across  thee,"  was  the 
reply.  "  Mak'  sure  o'  that.  An'  I  should  na  blame  him, 
neyther." 

Mr.  Briarley  reflected  again  for  a  few  seconds — re 
flected  deeply.  Then  he  moved  aside  a  little. 

"I  hannot  seen  Sararann  sin*  yesterday,"  he  said,  softly, 
"  nor  yet  Janey,  nor  yet — th'  owd  missus.  I — I  mun  go 
and  see  'em." 

Haworth  kept  his  word.     The  next  day  there  was  not  a 
9 


194  "HAWORTH'S" 

man  who  went  to  and  from  the  Works  who  could  not 
have  defended  himself  if  lie  had  been  attacked.  But  no 
one  was  attacked.  His  course  was  one  so  unheard  of.  so 
unexpected,  that  it  produced  a  shock.  There  was  a  lull 
in  the  movement,  at  least.  The  number  of  his  enemies 
increased  and  were  more  violent,  but  they  were  forced  to 
content  themselves  with  violence  of  speech.  Somehow, 
it  scarcely  seemed  safe  to  use  ordinary  measures  against 
Jem  Haworth.  He  slept  in  his  room  at  the  Works,  and 
shared  watches  with  the  force  he  had  on  guard.  He 
drove  through  the  town  boldly,  and  carried  a  grim,  alert 
face.  He  was  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere ;  in  the 
Works,  going  from  room  to  room ;  at  the  bank,  ready  for 
emergencies. 

"  When  this  here's  over,"  he  said,  "  I'll  give  you  chaps 
a  spree  you  won't  get  over  in  a  bit,  by  George  ! " 

Those  who  presented  themselves  at  the  bank  the  morn 
ing  the  placards  were  to  be  seen  got  their  money.  By 
noon  the  number  arriving  diminished  perceptibly.  In  a 
day  or  two  a  few  came  back,  and  would  have  handed  over 
their  savings  again  willingly,  but  the  bank  refused  to 
take  them. 

"  Carry  it  to  Manchester,"  were  Haworth's  words. 
"  They'll  take  it  there— I  won't." 

Those  of  his  hands  who  had  deserted  him  came  out  of 
their  respective  "  sprees "  in  a  week's  time,  with  chop- 
fallen  countenances.  They  had  not  gained  anything,  and 
were  somehow  not  in  great  favor  among  the  outside 
strikers.  In  their  most  pronounced  moods,  they  had  been 
neither  useful  nor  ornamental  to  their  party.  They  were 
not  eloquent,  nor  even  violent ;  they  were  simply  idle 
vagabonds,  who  were  no  great  loss  to  Haworth  and  no 
great  gain  to  his  enemies.  In  their  own  families  they 


"SARARANN"  195 

were  in  deep  and  dire  disgrace,  and  loud  were  the  ratings 
they  received  from  their  feminine  relatives. 

The  lot  of  Mr.  Briarley  was  melancholy  indeed.  Among 
the  malcontents  his  portion  was  derision  and  contumely ; 
at  home  he  was  received  with  bewailings  and  scathing 
severity. 

"  An'  that  theer  was  what  tha  war  up  to,  was  it  ? "  cried 
Mrs.  Briarley,  the  day  he  found  himself  compelled  by 
circumstances  to  reveal  the  true  state  of  affairs.  "  Tha'st 
j'ined  th'  strikers,  has  tha  ?  " 

"  Aye,  Sararann,  I've  j'ined  'em — an' — an'  we're  go;n' 
to  set  things  straight,  bless  yo' — that's  what  we're  goin'  to 
do.  We — we're  goin'  to  bring  the  mesters  down  a  bit, 
an' — an'  get  our  dues.  That's  what  we're  goin'  to  do, 
Sararann." 

It  was  dinner-time,  and  in  the  yard  and  about  the  street 
at  the  front  the  young  members  of  the  family  disported 
themselves  with  vigor.  Without  Janey  and  the  baby, 
who  were  in  the  house,  there  were  ten  of  them.  Mrs. 
Briarley  went  to  the  door  and  called  them.  Roused  to 
frantic  demonstrations  of  joy  by  the  immediate  prospect 
of  dinner,  they  appeared  in  a  body,  tumbling  over  one 
another,  shrieking,  filling  the  room  to  overflowing. 

Generally  they  were  disposed  of  in  relays,  for  conve 
nience'  sake.  It  was  some  time  since  Mr.  Briarley  had 
beheld  the  whole  array.  He  sat  upright  and  stared  at 
them.  Mrs.  Briarley  sat  down  confronting  him. 

"  What  art  tha  goin'  to  do  wi'  them  while  tha  bring  th5 
mesters  down  ? "  she  inquired. 

Mr.  Briarley  regarded  the  assembly  with  naive  bewil 
derment.  A  natural  depression  of  spirit  set  in. 

"  Theer — theer  seems  a  good  many  on  'em,  Sararann," 


196  "HAWORTH'S." 

he  said,  with  an  air  of  meek  protestation.  "  They  seem 
to  ha' — to  ha'  cumylated !  " 

"Theer's  twelve  on  'em,"  answered  Mrs.  Briarley, 
dryly,  "  an'  they've  aw  getten  mouths,  as  tha  sees.  An' 
their  feyther's  goin'  to  bring  th'  mesters  down  a 
bit !  " 

Twelve  pairs  of  eyes  stolidly  regarded  their  immediate 
progenitor,  as  if  desirous  of  discovering  his  intentions. 
Mr.  Briarley  was  embarrassed. 

"  Sararann,"  he  faltered,  "send  'em  out  to  play  'em. 
Send  'em  out  into  th'  open  air.  It's  good  fur  'em,  th' 
open  air  is,  an'  they  set  a  mon  back." 

Mrs.  Briarley  burst  into  lamentations,  covering  her  face 
with  her  apron  and  rocking  to  and  fro. 

"  Aye,"  cried  she,  "  send  'em  out  in  th'  air — happen 
they'll  fatten  on  it.  It's  aw  they'll  get,  poor  childer. 
Let  'em  mak'  th'  most  on  it." 

In  these  days  Haworth  was  more  of  a  lion  than  ever. 
He  might  have  dined  in  state  with  a  social  potentate  each 
day  if  he  had  been  so  minded.  The  bolder  spirits  visited 
him  at  the  Works,  and  would  have  had  him  talk  the  mat 
ter  over.  But  he  was  in  the  humor  for  neither  festivities 
nor  talk.  He  knew  what  foundation  his  safety  rested 
upon,  and  spent  many  a  sleepless  and  feverish  night.  He 
was  bitter  enough  at  heart  against  those  he  had  tempo 
rarily  baffled. 

"  Wait  till  tha'rt  out  o'  th'  woods,"  he  said  to  Ff  rench, 
when  he  was  betrayed  into  expressing  his  sense  of  relief. 

Oddly  enough,  the  feeling  against  Ff  rench  was  dispro 
portionately  violent.  He  was  regarded  as  an  alien  and  a 
usurper  of  the  rights  of  others.  There  existed  a  large 


"  SARARANN."  197 

disgust  for  his  gentle  birth  and  breeding,  and  a  sardonic 
contempt  for  his  incapacity  and  lack  of  experience.  He 
had  no  prestige  of  success  and  daring,  he  had  not  shown 
himself  in  the  hour  of  danger,  he  took  all  and  gave  noth 
ing. 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised,"  said  Mis?  Ffrench  to  Mur 
doch,  "  if  we  have  trouble  yet." 


CHAPTEK  XXX. 

MRS.    HAWORTH    AND    GRANNY   DIXON. 

ABOUT  this  time  a  change  appeared  in  little  Mrs.  Ha- 
worth.  Sometimes  when  they  sat  together,  Haworth 
found  himself  looking  up  suddenly  and  feeling  that  her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  and  at  such  times  she  invariably 
met  his  glance  with  a  timid,  startled  expression,  and  re 
leased  herself  from  it  as  soon  as  she  had  the  power. 

She  had  never  been  so  tender  and  lavish  with  her  inno 
cent  caresses,  but  there  was  continuously  a  tremulous 
watchfulness  in  her  manner,  which  was  almost  sugges 
tive  of  fear.  It  was  not  fear  of  him,  however.  She 
clang  to  him  with  all  the  strength  of  her  love.  At  night 
when  he  returned  home,  however  late,  he  was  sure  of 
finding  her  waiting  patiently  for  him,  and  in  the  morning 
when  he  left  the  house  he  was  never  so  early  that  she  was 
not  at  his  service.  The  man  began  to  quail  before  her, 
and  grow  restless  in  secret,  and  be  haunted,  when  he 
awakened  in  the  night,  by  his  remembrance  of  her. 

"  She  is  on  the  lookout  for  something,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  fearfully.  "  What  have  they  been  saying  to  her  ? " 

On  her  part,  when  she  sat  alone,  she  used  to  try  and 
think  the  matter  out,  and  set  it  straight  and  account  for 
it. 

"  It's  the  strikes,"  she  said,  "  as  has  set  them  agen  him 


MSB.  HA  WORTH  AND  GRAXNY  DIXON.  199 

and  made  'em  hard  an'  forgetful  of  all  he's  done.  They'd 
never  have  spoke  so  if  they'd  been  theirselves." 

She  could  scarcely  have  told  what  she  had  heard,  or 
how  the  first  blow  had  struck  home.  She  only  knew  that 
here  and  there  she  had  heard  at  first  a  rough  jeer  and  then 
a  terrible  outspoken  story,  which,  in  spite  of  her  disbelief, 
filled  her  with  dread.  The  man  who  first  flung  the  ill- 
favored  stor}7  at  her  stopped  half-way  through  it,  the 
words  dying  on  his  lips  at  the  sight  of  her  face. 

It  happened  in  one  of  her  pensioners'  cottages,  and  she 
rose  from  her  chair  trembling. 

u  I  didn't  think,"  she  said,  with  unconscious  pathos, 
"  as  the  world  could  be  so  ignorant  and  wicked." 

But  as  the  ill-feeling  became  more  violent,  she  met  with 
the  same  story  again  and  again,  and  often  with  new  and 
worse  versions  in  forms  she  could  not  combat.  She  be 
gan  to  be  haunted  by  vague  memories  of  things  she  had 
not  comprehended.  A  sense  of  pain  followed  her.  She 
was  afraid,  at  times,  to  go  to  the  cottages,  lest  she  should 
be  confronted  with  something  which  would  overwhelm 
her.  Then  she  began  to  search  her  son's  face  with  a 
sense  of  finding  some  strangeness  in  it.  She  watched 
him  wistfully  when  he  had  so  far  forgotten  her  presence 
as  to  be  almost  unaware  of  it.  One  night,  having  thrown 
himself  upon  a  sofa  and  fallen  into  a  weary  sleep,  he  sud 
denly  started  up  from  it  to  find  her  standing  close  by 
him,  looking  down,  her  face  pale,  her  locked  fingers  mov 
ing  nervously. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  exclaimed.     "  What  ails  you  ?  " 

He  was  startled  by  her  falling  upon  her  knees  at  his 
side,  crying,  and  laying  her  shaking  hand  upon  his  shoul 
der. 

"  You  was  having  a  bad  dream,  my  dear,"  she  said, — 


200  "  HAWORTH' S." 

"  a  bad  dream.  I — I  scarcely  knowed  your  face,  Jem — 
it  was  so  altered." 

He  sank  back  upon  his  cushions  and  stared  at  her. 
He  knew  he  had  been  having  no  bad  dream.  His  dreams 
were  not  half  so  evil  and  bitter  when  he  slept  as  they 
were  in  these  days  when  he  wakened. 

"  You  always  had  such  a  good  face,  Jem,"  she  said, 
"  and  such  a  kind  one.  When  you  was  a  boy " 

He  stopped  her  almost  sullenly. 

"  I'm  not  a  boy  now,"  he  said.  "  That's  put  away  and 
done  with." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  that's  true,  my  dear ;  but  you've 
lived  an  innocent  life,  an' — an'  never  done  no  wrong — no 
more  than  you  did  when  you  was  one.  And  your  face 
was  so  altered." 

Her  voice  died  away  into  a  silence  which,  somehow, 
neither  of  them  could  break. 

It  was  Granny  Dixon  who  revealed  the  truth  in  its 
barest  form.  Perhaps  no  man  nor  woman  in  Broxton 
knew  more  of  it  than  this  respectable  ancient  matron. 
Haworth  and  his  iniquities  had  been  the  spice  of  her  later 
life.  The  fact  that  his  name  was  being  mentioned  in  a 
conversation  never  escaped  her ;  she  discovered  it  as  if  by 
magic  and  invariably  commanded  that  the  incident  under 
discussion  be  repeated  at  the  top  of  the  reciter's  voice  for 
her  benefit,  occasionally  somewhat  to  the  confusion  of  the 
honest  matron  in  question. 

How  it  had  happened  that  she  had  not  betrayed  all  to 
Mrs.  Haworth  at  once  was  a  mystery  to  remain  unsolved. 
During  the  little  woman's  visits  to  the  cottage,  Mrs.  Briar- 
ley  existed  in  a  chronic  condition  of  fear  and  trem 
bling. 

"  She'll  be  out  wi?  it  some  o'  these  days,  mark  me,"  she 


MRS.  HA  WORTH  AND  GRANNY  DIXON.          201 

would  quaver  to  Jane}7.  "  An'  th'  Lord  knows,  I  would 
na'  be  theer  fur  nowt  when  she  does." 

But  she  did  not  do  it  at  first.  Mrs.  Briarley  had  a 
secret  conviction  that  the  fact  that  she  did  not  do  so  was 
due  entirely  to  iniquity.  She  had  seen  her  sit  peering 
from  under  her  brows  at  their  guest  as  the  simple  crea 
ture  poured  forth  her  loving  praise  of  her  son,  and  at  such 
times  it  was  always  Mrs.  Briarley's  province  to  repeat  the 
conversation  for  her  benefit. 

"  Aye,"  Mrs.  Dixon  would  comment  with  an  evil  smile, 
"  that's  him !  That's  Haworth  !  He's  a  noice  chap — is 
Ilaworth.  /know  him." 

Mrs.  Haworth  learned  in  time  to  fear  her  and  to  speak 
timidly  in  her  presence,  rarely  referring  to  the  subject  of 
her  boy's  benefactions. 

"  Only  as  it  wouldn't  be  nat'ral,"  she  said  once  to  Mrs. 
Briarley,  "  I  should  think  she  was  set  agen  him." 

"  Eh !  bless  us,"  was  Mrs.  Briarley's  answer.  "  Yo' 
need  na  moind  her.  She's  set  agen  ivverybody.  She's 
th'  nowtest  owd  piece  i'  Christendom." 

A  few  days  after  Haworth  had  awakened  to  find  his 
mother  standing  near  him,  Mrs.  Haworth  paid  a  visit  to 
the  Briarleys.  She  took  with  her  a  basket,  which  the 
poor  of  Broxton  had  long  since  learned  to  know.  In  this 
case  it  contained  stockings  for  the  little  Briarleys  and  a 
dress  or  so  for  the  baby. 

When  she  had  bestowed  her  gifts  and  seated  herself, 
she  turned  to  Granny  Dixon  with  some  tremor  of  manner. 

"  I  hope  you're  well,  ma'am,"  she  said. 

Granny  Dixon  made  no  reply.  She  sat  bent  over  in 
her  chair,  regarding  her  for  a  few  seconds  with  unblink 
ing  gaze.  Then  she  slowly  pointed  with  her  thin,  crooked 
finger  to  the  little  presents. 


202  «  HA  WORTH'S." 

"He  sent  'em,  did  he?"  she  trumpeted  forth.  "Ha 
worth  ? " 

Mrs.  Ha  worth  quailed  before  her. 

"  Yes,  ma'am/'  she  answered,  "  leastways " 

Granny  Dixon  stopped  her. 

"He  did  iiowt  o'  th'  soart,"  she  cried.  "Tha'rt 
leein' ! " 

The  little  woman  made  an  effort  to  rise,  turned  pale, 
and  sat  down  again. 

"  Ma'am "  she  began. 

Granny  Dixon's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Tha'rt  leein',"  she  repeated.  "  He's  th'  worst  chap  i' 
England,  and  aw  Broxton  knows  it." 

Her  victim  uttered  a  low  cry  of  pain.  Mrs.  Briarley 
had  left  the  room,  and  there  was  no  one  to  help  her.  All 
the  hints  and  jeers  she  had  heard  rushed  back  to  her,  but 
she  struggled  to  stand  up  against  them. 

"  It  ain't  true,"  she  said.     "  It  ain't— true." 

Granny  Dixon  was  just  beginning  to  enjoy  herself.  A 
difference  of  opinion  with  Mrs.  Briarley,  which  had  oc 
curred  a  short  time  before,  had  prepared  her  for  the  occa 
sion.  She  knew  that  nothing  would  so  much  demoralize 
her  relative  and  hostess  as  this  iniquitous  outbreak. 

"  They've  been  warnin'  me  to  keep  quiet  an'  not  tell 
thee,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  towd  'em  I'd  tell  thee  when 
I  wur  i'  th'  humor,  an'  I'm  i'  th'  humor  now.  Will 
Ffrench  wur  a  devil,  but  hds  a  bigger  one  yet.  He  kep' 
thee  away  because  he  did  na  want  thee  to  know.  He  set 
aw  th'  place  by  th'  ears.  A  decent  woman  would  na  cross 
his  door-step,  nor  a  decent  mon,  fur  aw  his  brass — afore 
tha  coom.  Th'  lot  as  he  used  to  ha'  down  fro'  Lunnon  an' 
Manchester  wur  a  shame  to  th'  town.  Pve  seed  'em — 
women  in  paint  an'  feathers,  an'  men  as  decent  lasses 


MRS.  HA  WORTH  AND  GRANNY  D1XON. 

hide  fro'.  A  good  un,  wur  he  ?  Aye,  he  wur  a  good  un, 
for  sure." 

She  sat  and  chuckled  a  moment,  thinking  of  Sararann's 
coming  terror  and  confusion.  She  had  no  objection  to 
Haworth's  moral  lapses,  herself,  but  she  meant  to  make 
the  most  of  them  while  she  was  at  it.  She  saw  nothing 
of  the  anguish  in  the  face  from  which  all  the  fresh,  almost 
girlish  color  had  faded. 

"  An'  yo'  did  na  know  as  they  wur  na  gentlefolk,"  she 
proclaimed  again.  "  Tha  thowt  they  wur  ladies  an'  gen 
tlemen  when  tha  coom  in  on  'em  th'  fust  night  tha  set 
foot  i'  th'  house.  A  noice  batch  o'  ladies  they  wur  !  An' 
he  passed  'em  off  on  thee !  He  wur  sharp  enow  fur  that, 
trust  him.  Ladies,  bless  us  !  7  heard  tell  on  it — an'  so 
did  aw  Broxton  !  " 

The  wounded  creature  gathered  all  her  strength  to  rise 
from  her  chair.  She  stood  pressing  her  hands  against 
her  heart,  swaying  and  deadly  pale. 

"  He  has  been  a  good  son  to  me,"  she  said.  "  A  good 
son — an'  I  can't  believe  it.  You  wouldn't  yourself  if — 
you  was  his  mother,  an'  knew  him  as — as  I  do." 

She  made  her  way  to  the  door  just  as  Mrs.  Briarley 
came  in.  One  glance  told  that  excellent  matron  that  the 
long-dreaded  calamity  had  arrived. 

"  What's  she  been  up  to  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  Lord  ha' 
mercy  !  what's  she  been  up  to  now  ?  " 

"She's  been  tellin'  me,"  faltered  the  departing  guest, 
"  that  my  son's  a  bad  man  an'  a  shame  to  me.  Let  me 
go,  ma'am — for  I've  never  heard  talk  like  this  before — 
an'  it's  made  me  a  bit  weak  an' — queer." 

And  she  slipped  past  and  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Briarley's  patience  deserted  her.  A  full  sense  of 
what  Granny  Dixon's  worst  might  be  burst  in  upon  her; 


204  HAWORTW3." 

a  remembrance  of  her  own  manifold  wrongs  and  humil 
iations  added  itself  to  this  sense  ;  for  the  moment,  discre 
tion  ceased  to  appear  the  better  part  of  valor. 

"  What  has  tha  been  sayin'  ? "  she  cried.  "  What  has 
tha  been  say  in'  ?  Out  wi'  it." 

"  I've  been  telling  her  what  tha  wur  af eared  to  tell 
her,"  chuckled  Mrs.  Dixon  with  exultation.  "  I  towd 
thee  I  would  an'  I've  done  it." 

Mrs.  Briarley  made  no  more  ado.  She  set  the  baby 
down  upon  an  adjacent  chair  with  a  resonant  sound,  and 
then  fell  upon  the  miserable  old  woman  and  seizing  her 
by  the  shoulders  shook  her  until  her  cap  flew  off  and 
danced  upon  her  back  and  her  mouth  opened  and  shut  as 
if  worked  by  a  spring. 

"  Tha  brazent,  hard-hearted  besom,  tha  !  "  she  cried  as 
she  shook.  "  Tha  ill-f arrant  iiowt,  tha !  as  nivver  did  no 
good  i'  thy  days  an  canna  bear  as  no  one  else  should.  I 
dunnot  care  if  I  nivver  see  thy  brass  as  long  as  I  live.  If 
tha  wur  noine  i'stead  o'  ninety-five  I'd  give  thee  a  hidin', 
tha  brazent,  hard-hearted  owd  piece  ! " 

Her  strength  failed  her  and  she  loosened  her  hold  and 
sat  down  and  wept  aloud  behind  the  baby,  and  Mrs. 
Dixon  fell  back  in  her  chair,  an  unpleasant  heap,  without 
breath  to  speak  a  word  or  strength  to  do  anything  but 
clutch  wildly  at  her  cap,  and  so  remained  shrunken  and 
staring. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


MRS.  HA  WORTH  made  her  way  along  the  streets  with 
weak  and  lagging  steps.  She  had  been  a  brisk  walker  in 
the  days  of  her  country  life,  and  even  now  was  fonder  of 
going  here  and  there  on  foot  than  of  riding  in  state,  as 
her  son  would  have  preferred.  But  now  the  way  before 
her  seemed  long.  She  knew  where  she  was  going. 

"  There's  one  of  'em  as  knows  an'  will  tell  me,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  She  can't  have  no  cruel  feeling  against 
him,  bein'  a  lady,  an'  knowin'  him  so  well.  An'  if  it's 
true — not  as  I  believe  it,  Jem,  my  dear,  for  I  don't — she'll 
break  it  to  me  gentle." 

"  Not  as  I  believe,  Jem,  my  dear,  for  I  don't,"  she  said 
to  herself  again  and  again. 

Her  mind  went  back  to  the  first  hour  of  his  life,  when 
he  lay,  a  strong-limbed  child,  on  her  weak  arm,  the  one 
comfort  given  to  her  out  of  her  wretched  marriage.  She 
thought  of  him  again  as  a  lad,  growing  and  thriving  in 
spite  of  hunger  and  cold,  growing  and  thriving  in  spite 
of  cruelty  and  wrong  which  broke  her  health  and  threw 
her  helpless  upon  charity.  He  had  been  sharper  and 
bolder  than  other  boys,  and  always  steadfast  to  his  deter 
mination. 

"  He  was  always  good  to  me,"  she  said.  "  Child  an' 
man  he's  never  forgot  me,  or  beeti  unmindful.  If  there'd 


206  "HAWORT&S." 

have  been  wrong  in  his  life,  who'd  have  been  liker  to  see 
it  than  me  ?  " 

It  was  to  Rachel  Ff  rench  she  was  going,  and  when  at 
last  she  reached  the  end  of  her  journey,  and  was  walking 
up  the  pathway  to  the  house,  Rachel  Ff  rench,  who  stood 
at  the  window,  saw  her,  and  was  moved  to  wonder  by  her 
pallor  and  feebleness. 

The  spring  sunshine  was  so  bright  outside  that  the  room 
seemed  quite  dark  when  she  came  into  it,  and  even  after 
she  had  seated  herself  the  only  light  in  it  seemed  to  ema 
nate  from  the  figure  of  Miss  Ffrench  herself,  who  stood 
opposite  her  in  a  dress  of  some  thin  white  stuff  and  with 
strongly  fragrant  yellow  hyacinths  at  her  neck  and  in  her 
hand. 

"  You  are  tired,"  she  said.  "  You  should  not  have 
walked." 

The  woman  looked  up  at  her  timidly. 

"  It  isn't  that,"  she  answered.     "  It's  somethin'  else." 

She  suddenly  stretched  forth  her  hands  into  the  light. 

"  I've  come  here  to  hear  about  my  boy,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  to  hear  from  one  as  knows  the  truth,  an' — will  tell 
me." 

Miss  French  was  not  of  a  sympathetic  nature.  Few 
young  women  possessed  more  nerve  and  self-poise  at  try 
ing  times,  and  she  had  not  at  any  previous  period  been 
specially  touched  by  Mrs.  Haworth  ;  but  just  now  she  was 
singularly  distressed. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know,"  she  asked,  "  that  I  can 
tell  you?" 

She  was  not  prepared  for  what  happened  next,  and  lost 
a  little  placidity  through  it.  The  simple,  loving  creature 
fell  at  her  feet  and  caught  hold  of  her  dress,  sobbing. 

"  He's  thirty-three  years  old,"  she  cried,  "  an'  I've  never 


HAWORTH'8  DEFENDER.  207 

seen  the  day  when  he's  give  me  a  hurt.  He's  been  the 
pride  of  my  life  an'  the  hope  of  it.  I've  looked  up  to 
him  and  prayed  for  him  an'  believed  in  him — an'  they  say 
he's  black  with  shameful  sin — an'  I  don't  know  him,  nor 
never  did,  for  he's  deceived  me  from  first  to  last." 

The  yellow  hyacinths  fell  from  Miss  Ffrench's  hand  on 
the  carpet,  and  she  looked  down  at  them  instead  of  at  the 
upturned  face. 

"  Who  said  it  ? "  she  asked. 

But  she  was  not  answered. 

"  If  it's  true— not  that  I  believe  it,  for  I  don't— if  it's 
true,  what  is  there  left  for  me,  as  loved  and  honored  him 
— where's  my  son  I  thanked  God  for  day  an'  night? 
Where's  my  boy  as  paid  me  for  all  I  bore  ?  He's  never 
been — he's  never  been  at  all.  I've  never  been  his  mother 
nor  he's  never  been  my  son.  If  it's  true — not  as  I  believe 
it,  for  I  don't — where  is  he  ?  " 

Miss  Ffrench  bent  down  and  picked  up  her  hyacinths. 
She  wondered,  as  she  bent  down,  what  her  reply  would 
be. 

"  Will  you  believe  me  ?  "  she  asked,  as  she  rose  up  again. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  she  was  answered,  "  I  know  I  may  do 
it— thank  God !  " 

"  Yes,  you  may,"  said  Miss  Ffrench,  without  flinching 
in  the  least.  "  I  can  have  no  feeling  for  or  against  him. 
I  can  have  no  end  to  serve,  one  way  or  the  other.  It  is 
not  true.  It  is  a  lie.  He  is  all  you  have  believed." 

She  helped  her  to  rise,  and  made  her  sit  down  again  in 
an  easy-chair,  and  then  herself  withdrew  a  little,  and 
stood  leaning  against  the  window  looking  at  her. 

"  He  has  done  more  good  in  Broxton  than  any  other 
man  who  lives,"  she  said.  "  He  has  made  it  what  it  is. 
The  people  who  hate  him  and  speak  ill  of  him  are  those 


208  "SAWORTHW 

he  has  benefited  most.  It  is  the  way  of  their  class,  I  have 
heard  before,  and  now  I  believe  it  to  be  true.  They  have 
said  worse  things  of  men  who  deserve  them  as  little  as  he 
does.  He  has  enemies  whom  he  has  conquered,  and  they 
will  never  forgive  him." 

She  discovered  a  good  many  things  to  say,  having  once 
begun,  and  she  actually  found  a  kind  of  epicurean  enjoy 
ment  in  saying  them  in  a  manner  the  most  telling.  She 
always  liked  to  do  a  thing  very  well. 

But,  notwithstanding  this,  the  time  seemed  rather  long 
before  she  was  left  alone  to  think  the  matter  over. 

Before  she  had  said  many  words  her  visitor  was  another 
woman.  Life's  color  came  back  to  her,  and  she  sat  crying 
softly,  tears  of  sheer  joy  and  relief. 

u  I  knowed  it  couldn't  be  true,"  she  said.  "  I  knowed 
it,  an'  oh !  thank  you,  ma'am,  with  all  a  mother's  heart ! 

"  To  think,"  she  said,  smiling  and  sobbing,  "  as  I  should 
have  been  so  wicked  as  to  let  it  weigh  on  me,  when  I 
knowed  so  well  as  it  couldn't  never  be.  I  should  be 
almost  'shamed  to  look  him  in  the  face  if  I  didn't  know 
how  good  he  was,  an'  how  ready  he'd  be  to  forgive  me." 

"When  at  last  she  was  gone,  Miss  Ffrench  threw  herself 
into  the  chair  she  had  left,  rather  languidly.  She  was 
positively  tired. 

As  she  did  so  she  heard  a  sound.  She  rose  hastily  and 
turned  toward  the  folding-doors  leading  into  the  adjoining 
room.  They  had  been  partially  closed,  and  as  she  turned 
they  were  pushed  aside  and  some  one  came  through  them. 

It  was  Jem  Haworth. 

He  was  haggard  and  disheveled,  and  as  he  approached 
her  he  walked  unsteadily. 

"  I  was  in  there  through  it  all,"  he  said,  "  and  I  heard 
every  word." 


HAWORTH'S  DEFENDER.  209 

She  was  herself  again,  at  once.  She  knew  she  had  not 
been  herself  ten  minutes  before. 

"Well,"  she  said. 

He  came  up  and  stood  near  her — and  almost  abject 
tremor  upon  him. 

"  Will  you  listen  to  what  I  have  got  to  say  ?  "  he  said. 

She  made  a  cold  gesture  of  assent. 

"  If  she'd  gone  to  some  and  heard  what  they  had  to 
tell,"  he  said,  "  it  would  have  killed  her.  It's  well  she 
came  here." 

She  saw  the  dark  color  rush  to  his  face  and  knew  what 
was  coming. 

"  It's  all  true,  "by "  he  burst  out,  "  every  word  of 

it ! " 

"  When  I  was  in  there."  he  went  on,  with  a  gesture  to- 

'  7  O 

ward  the  other  room,  "  I  swore  I'd  tell  you.  Make  the 
best  and  the  worst  of  it.  It's  all  true — that  and  more." 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  rested  his  forehead  011  his 
hands. 

"  Things  has  begun  to  go  agen  me,"  he  said.  "  They 
never  did  before.  I've  been  used  to  tell  myself  there  was 
a  kind  of  luck  in  keeping  it  hid  from  her.  Th'  day  it 
comes  on  her,  full  force,  I'm  done  for.  I  said  in  there 
you  should  know,  at  least.  It's  all  true." 

"  I  knew  it  was  true,"  remarked  Miss  Ffrench,  "  all  the 
time." 

"  You  knew !  "  he  cried  out.     "  You  !  " 

"  I  have  known  it  from  the  first,"  she  answered.  "  Did 
you  think  it  was  a  secret  ? " 

He  turned  hot  and  cold  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Then,  by  George,  you'd  a  reason  for  saying  what  you 
did.  What  was  it?" 

She  remained  silent,  looking  out  of  the  open  window 


210  "HAWORTH'S." 

across  the  flower-bright  garden.  She  watched  a  couple  of 
yellow  butterflies  eddying  above  a  purple  hyacinth  for 
several  seconds  before  she  spoke,  and  then  did  so  slowly 
and  absently. 

"  I  don't  know  the  reason,"  she  said.  "  It  was  a  strange 
thing  for  me  to  do." 

"  It  wasn't  to  save  me  aught,"  he  returned.  "  That's 
plain  enough." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  was  not  to  save  you.  I  am 
not  given  to  pitying  people,  but  I  think  that  for  the  time 
I  wanted  to  save  her.  It  was  a  strange  thing,"  she  said, 
softly,  "  for  me  to  do." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

CHRISTIAN   MURDOCH. 

CHRISTIAN  had  never  spoken  to  Murdoch  openly  of  his 
secret  labor.  He  was  always  aware  that  she  knew  and 
understood ;  he  had  seen  her  knowledge  in  her  face  al 
most  from  the  first,  but  they  had  exchanged  no  words  on 
the  subject.  He  had  never  wavered  from  his  resolve 
since  he  had  made  it.  Whatever  his  tasks  had  been  in 
the  day,  or  however  late  his  return  was  at  night,  he  did 
not  rest  until  he  had  given  a  certain  number  of  hours  to 
this  work.  Often  Christian  and  his  mother,  wakening 
long  after  midnight,  heard  him  moving  about  in  his  closed 
room.  He  grew  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed,  but  he  did  not 
speak  of  what  he  was  doing,  and  they  never  knew  wheth 
er  he  was  hopeful  or  despairing. 

Without  seeing  very  much  of  the  two  women,  he  still 
found  himself  led  to  think  of  them  constantly.  He  was 
vaguely  conscious  that  since  their  interview  in  the  grave 
yard,  he  had  never  felt  free  from  Christian  Murdoch. 
More  than  once  her  mother's  words  came  back  to  him 
with  startling  force.  "She  sits  and  looks  on  and  says 
nothing.  She  asks  nothing,  but  her  eyes  force  me  to 


He  knew  that  she  was  constantly  watching  him.  Often 
he  looked  up  and  met  her  glance,  and  somehow  it  was 
always  a  kind  of  shock  to  him.  He  knew  that  she  was 


212  «  HA  WORTH'S." 

wondering  and  asking  herself  questions  she  could  not  ask 
him. 

"If  I  gave  it  up  or  flagged,"  he  told  himself,  "she 
would  know  without  my  saying  a  word." 

There  had  grown  in  her  a  beauty  of  a  dark,  foreign 
type.  The  delicate  olive  of  her  skin  and  the  dense  black 
ness  of  her  eyes  and  hair  caused  her  to  be  considered  a 
novelty  worth  commenting  upon  by  the  men  of  Broxton 
society,  which  was  of  a  highly  critical  nature.  She  went 
out  a  great  deal  as  the  spring  advanced  and  began  to 
know  the  place  and  people  better.  She  developed  a 
pathetic  eagerness  to  make  friends  and  understand  those 
around  her.  One  day,  she  went  alone  to  Broxton  Chapel 
and  after  sitting  through  one  of  Mr.  Hixon's  most  sul 
phurous  sermons,  came  home  in  a  brooding  mood. 

"  Why  did  you  go  ?  "  Murdoch  was  roused  to  ask. 

"  I  thought,"  ehe  answered,  "  it  might  make  me  better. 
I  thought  I  would  try." 

Not  long  afterward,  when  he  had  gone  out  of  the  house 
and  she  was  left  sitting  with  Mrs.  Murdoch,  she  suddenly 
looked  up  from  the  carpet  on  which  her  eyes  had  been 
fixed  and  asked  her  a  question. 

"  Is  it  true  that  I  am  beginning  to  be  very  handsome  ? " 
she  demanded. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Murdoch  answered,  "  it  is  true." 

A  dark  cloud  settled  upon  her  face  and  her  eyes  fell 
again. 

"  I  heard  some  men  in  the  street  speak  aloud  to  each 
other  about  it,"  she  said.  "  Do  they  speak  so  of  all 
women  who  are  handsome  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  her  companion  replied,  surveying  her 
critically  and  with  some  anxiety. 

" They  used   to   speak   so  of — her"  she  said,  slowly. 


CHRISTIAN  MURDOCH.  213 

"  She  was  a  beautiful  woman.  They  were  always  telling 
her  of  it  again  and  again,  and  I  used  to  go  and  look  at 
myself  in  the  glass  and  be  glad  that  I  was  thin  and  dark 
and  ugly  and  that  they  laughed  at  me.  I  wanted  to  be 
hideous.  Once,  when  I  was  a  child,  a  man  said  :  '  Never 
mind,  she  will  be  a  beauty  some  day — like  her  mother ! ' 
and  I  flew  at  him  and  struck  him,  and  then  I  ran  away  to 
my  room  and  fell  down  upon  my  knees  and  said  the  first 
prayer  I  ever  said  in  my  life.  I  said, i  O  God ! — if  there 
is  a  God — strike  me  dead!  O  God  ! — if  there  is  a  God 
— strike  me  dead  ! J  " 

The  woman  who  listened  shuddered. 

"Am  I  like — anybody  ?  "  she  said  next. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  was  the  answer. 

"  I  could  not  tell  myself,  if  I  were,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  watched  for  it  for  so  long  that  I  should  not  see  it  if  it 
had  come.  I  look  every  day.  Perhaps  I  am  and  do  not 
know.  Perhaps  that  is  why  they  look  at  me  in  the  street, 
and  speak  of  me  loud  as  I  go  by." 

Her  voice  fell  into  a  whisper.  She  threw  herself  upon 
her  knees  and  laid  her  head  upon  the  woman's  lap. 

"  Cover  me  with  your  arms,"  she  said.  "  Cover  me  so 
that  you  may  not  see  my  face." 

She  was  constantly  moved  to  these  strange  outbursts  of 
feeling  in  these  days.  A  few  nights  later,  as  he  sat  at 
work  after  midnight,  Murdoch  fancied  that  he  heard  a 
sound  outside  his  door.  He  went  to  it  and  opened  it  and 
found  himself  confronting  the  girl  as  she  sat  crouched 
upon  the  lowest  step  of  the  stairway. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ? "  he  asked. 

u  I  could  not  go  to  sleep,"  she  answered.  "  I  could  not 
stop  thinking  of  what  you  were  doing.  It  seemed  as  if  I 


?1  "HAWORTH'S." 

should  have  a  little  share  in  it  if  I  were  here.  Are  yon," 
— almost  timidly, — "  are  yon  tired  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  am  tired." 

"  Are  you — any  nearer  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  think  so, — but  so  did  he." 

She  rose  slowly. 

"  I  will  go  away,"  she  said.  "  It  would  only  disturb 
you  to  know  I  was  here." 

She  moved  a  step  upward  and  then  paused  uncertainly. 

"  You  told  me  once,"  she  said,  "  that  there  was  no  rea 
son  why  I  should  not  be  as  good  and  happy  as  any  other 
woman.  Are  you  sure  of  what  yon  said  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  do  not  doubt  in  that  way,"  he  said. 

She  stood  looking  down  at  him,  one  hand  resting  upon 
the  balustrade,  her  dark  eyes  wild  with  some  strange 
emotion. 

"  I  lie  awake  at  night  a  great  deal,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
am  always  thinking  of  what  has  gone  by.  Sometimes — 
lately — I  have  wished  that — I  had  forgiven  her." 

"  I  have  wished  so  too,"  he  answered. 

"  I  know  that,"  she  returned.  "  But  I  did  not  and  it 
is  too  late.  Everything  is  over  for  her  and  it  is  too  late. 
For  a  long  time  1  was  glad,  but  now — I  suppose  I  am  re 
penting.  She  did  not  repent.  She  suffered,  but  she  did 
not  repent.  I  think  I  am  repenting." 

When  he  returned  to  his  room  he  found  he  could  not 
settle  down  to  work  again.  He  walked  up  and  down 
restlessly  for  some  time,  and  at  last  threw  himself  upon 
the  bed  and  lay  wide  awake  thinking  in  the  darkness. 

It  always  cost  him  a  struggle  to  shut  out  the  world  and 
life  and  concentrate  himself  upon  his  labor  in  those  days. 
A  year  before  it  would  have  been  different,  now  there  was 
always  a  battle  to  be  fought.  There  were  dreams  to  be 


CHRISTIAN  MURDOCH.  215 

held  at  bay  and  memories  which  his  youth  and  passion 
made  overwhelming  forces. 

But  to-night,  somehow,  it  was  Christian  Murdoch  who 
disturbed  him.  There  had  been  a  terrible  wistfulness  in 
her  voice — a  wistfulness  mingled  with  long-repressed  fear, 
which  had  touched  him  more  than  all.  And  so,  when 
sleep  came  to  him,  it  happened  that  her  figure  stood  out 
alone  from  all  others  before  him,  and  was  his  last  thought. 

Among  those  whom  Christian  Murdoch  learned  to 
know  was  Janey  Briarley.  She  saw  her  first  in  the 
streets,  and  again  in  Mrs.  Murdoch's  kitchen,  where  she 
occasionally  presented  herself,  attired  in  the  huge  apron, 
to  assist  in  a  professional  capacity  upon  "  cleanin'  days.' 
The  baby  having  learned  to  walk,  and  Mr.  Briarley  being 
still  an  inactive  member  of  the  household,  it  fell  upon 
Janey  and  her  mother  to  endeavor  to  add,  by  such  efforts 
as  lay  in  their  power,  to  their  means  for  providing  for  the 
eleven.  With  the  assistance  of  the  apron,  Janey  was 
enabled  to  make  herself  generally  useful  upon  all  active 
occasions. 

"  Hoo's  a  little  thing,  but  hoo's  a  sharp  un,"  Mrs. 
Briarley  was  wont  to  say.  "  Hoo  can  work  like  a  woman. 
I  dunnot  know  what  I'd  ha'  done  wi'out  her.  Yo'  try 
her,  Missus,  an'  see." 

She  spent  each  Saturday  afternoon  in  Mrs.  Murdoch's 
kitchen,  and  it  was  not  long  before  Christian  drifted  into 
an  acquaintance  with  her.  The  first  time  she  saw  her  on 
her  knees  before  the  fire-place,  surrounded  by  black-lead 
brushes,  bath-brick,  and  "pipe-clay"  and  vigorously  pol 
ishing  the  fender,  she  stopped  short  to  look  at  her. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  little  while. 

"  I'm  twelve,  goin'  on  thirteen,"  was  the  reply,  without 
any  cessation  of  the  rubbing. 


216  "HAWORTWS." 

The  girl  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  mantel  and  sur 
veyed  her  critically. 

"  You  don't  look  that  old,"  she  said. 

"  Aye,  but  I  do,"  returned  the  child,  "  i'  tha  looks  at 
my  face.  I'm  stunted  wi'  nussin',  that's  what  mak's  me 
so  little." 

She  gave  her  face  a  sharp  turn  upward,  that  it  might  be 
seen. 

"  I've  had  enow  to  mak'  me  look  owd,  I  con  tell  thee," 
she  remarked. 

The  interest  she  saw  in  her  countenance  inspired  her. 
She  became  comparatively  garrulous  upon  the  subject  of 
the  family  anxieties.  "  Feyther  "  figured  in  his  usual  un 
enviable  role,  and  Granny  Dixon  was  presented  in  strong 
colors,  but  finally  she  pulled  herself  up  and  changed  the 
subject  with  startling  suddenness. 

"  I've  seed  thee  mony  a  toime  afore,"  she  said,  "  an' 
I've  heerd  folk  talk  about  thee.  I  nivver  heerd  him  say 
owt  about  thee,  though." 

"Whom  do  you  mean?"  asked  Christian,  with  a  little 
frown. 

"Mester  Murdoch.  We  used  to  see  a  good  deal  on  him 
at  th'  start,  but  we  dunnot  see  him  so  often  i'  these  days- 
He's  getten  other  places  to  go  to.  Th'  quality  mak'  a 
good  deal  on  him." 

She  paused  and  sat  up,  polishing  brush  in  hand. 

"I  dunnot  wonder  as  they  say  yo're  han'some,"  she 
volunteered. 

"Who  says  so?"  coldly. 

"  Th'  men  in  th'  Works  an'  th'  foak  as  sees  yo'  i'  th' 
street.  Some  on  'em  says  you're  han'somer  than  her — an' 
that's  sayin'  a  good  bit,  yo'  know." 

"'Her'isMissFfrench?" 


CHRISTIAN  MURDOCH.  217 

"Aye.  Yo'  dunnot  dress  as  foine,  an'  yo're  dark- 
skinned,  but  theer's  summat  noice  about  yo'.  I  dunnot 
wonder  as  they  say  yo're  han'some." 

"  Never  mind  talking  about  that.  Tell  me  about  some 
thing  else." 

The  termination  of  the  interview  left  them  on  suf 
ficiently  good  terms. 

Janey  went  home  with  a  story  to  tell. 

"  She's  crossed  th'  seas,"  she  said,  "  an'  lived  i'  furrin 
parts.  She's  getten  queer  ways  an'  she  stares  at  a  body — 
but  I  loike  her  fur  aw  that." 

"Been  i'  furrin  parts!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Briarley. 
"  Bless  us  !  No  wonder  th'  poor  thing's  a  bit  heathenish. 
Hast  tha  ivver  seed  her  at  Chapel,  Jane  Ann  ? " 

The  fact  that  she  had  not  been  seen  at  chapel  awak 
ened  grave  misgivings  as  to  the  possible  presence  of 
popery  and  the  "  scarlet  woman,"  which  objectionable 
female  figured  largely  and  in  most  unpleasant  guise  in 
the  discourses  of  Brother  Hixon. 

"  Theer's  no  knowin'  what  th'  poor  lass  has  been  browt 
up  to,"  said  the  good  matron,  "  livin'  reet  under  th'  Pope's 
nose  an'  nivver  darin'  to  say  her  soul's  her  own.  I  nivver 
had  no  notion  o'  them  furrin  parts  my  sen.  Gie  me  Lan 
cashire." 

But  the  next  week  the  girl  made  her  visit  to  the  chapel 
and  sat  throughout  the  sermon  with  her  steadfast  black 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  Reverend  Mr.  Hixon.  Once,  during 
a  moment  of  inflammatory  eloquence,  that  gentleman, 
suddenly  becoming  conscious  of  her  gaze,  stopped  with  a 
start  and  with  difficulty  regained  his  equilibrium,  though 
Christian  did  not  flinch  at  all,  or  seem  to  observe  his 
alarm  and  confusion. 

She  cultivated  Janey  with  an  odd  persistence  after  this. 
10 


218 

She  asked  her  questions  concerning  her  life  and  experi 
ences,  and  always  seemed  to  find  her  interesting.  Often 
Janey  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  she  stood  and  looked 
at  her  for  some  time  with  an  air  of  curiosity. 

"  Do  you,"  she  asked  her  suddenly  one  day,  "  do  you 
believe  all  that  man  says  to  you  ?  " 

Janey  started  into  a  sitting  posture,  as  was  her  custom 
when  roused  in  the  midst  of  her  labors. 

"  Eh !  bless  us  !    Yes,"  she  exclaimed.    "  Dunnot  yo'  ?  " 

"  No." 

Recollections  of  the  "scarlet  woman"  flashed  across 
her  young  hearer's  mind. 

"  Art  tha  a  Papist  ? "  she  gasped. 

«  No — not  yet." 

"  Art  tha,"  Janey  asked,  breathlessly, — "  art  tha  goin' 
to  be  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"An'  tha— tha  does  na  believe  what  Mester  Hixon 
says  ? " 

"  No— not  yet." 

"  What  does  tha  believe  ?  " 

She  stared  up  at  the  dark  young  face  aghast.  It  was 
quite  unmoved.  The  girl's  eyes  were  fixed  on  space. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Wheer — wheer  does  tha  expect  to  go  when  tha 
dees?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  coldly  ;  "very  often  I  don't 
care." 

Janey  dropped  her  brush  and  forgot  to  pick  it  up. 

"  Why,  bless  thee  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  some  sharp 
ness,  and  also  with  the  manner  of  one  presenting  the 
only  practical  solution  of  a  difficulty,  "  tha'lt  go  to  hell,  i: 
tha  does  na  repent ! " 


CHRISTIAN  MURDOCH.  '        219 

The  girl  turned  her  eyes  upon  her. 
"  Does  it  all  depend  on  that  ?  "  she  demanded. 
"  Aye,  to  be  sure,"  she  replied,  testily.     "  Does  na  tha 
know  that  ? " 

"  Then,"  said  Christian,  slowly,  "  I  shall  not  go  to  hell 

for  I  am  repenting." 

And  she  turned  about  and  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

A   SEED   SOWN. 

THERE  had  been,  as  it  seemed,  a  lull  in  the  storm.  The 
idlers  did  not  come  over  from  Molton  and  Dillup  as  often 
as  at  first.  The  strikes  had  extended  until  they  were  in  full 
blast  throughout  the  country,  but  "  Haworth's,"  so  far,  had 
held  its  own.  Haworth  himself  was  regarded  as  a  kind 
of  demi-god.  He  might  have  done  almost  anything  he 
pleased.  It  was  a  source  of  some  surprise  to  his  admirers 
that  he  chose  to  do  so  little  and  showed  no  elation.  One 
or  two  observing  outsiders  saw  that  his  struggle  had  left 
its  mark  upon  him.  There  were  deep  lines  in  his  face ; 
lie  had  lost  flesh  and  something  of  his  air  of  bravado ;  at 
times  he  was  almost  haggard.  As  things  became  quieter 
he  began  to  take  sudden  mysterious  journeys  to  London 
and  Manchester  and  various  other  towns.  Ffrench  did 
not  know  why  he  went ;  in  fact  Ffrench  knew  very  little 
of  him  but  that  his  humors  were  frequently  trying  and 
always  more  morose  after  such  absences.  He  himself  had 
alternately  blown  hot  and  cold.  Of  late  the  fruit  of  his 
efforts  had  rather  the  flavor  of  ashes.  He  was  of  even 
less  importance  than  before  in  the  Works,  and  he  continu 
ally  heard  unpleasant  comments  and  reports  outside.  As 
surely  as  his  spirits  rose  to  a  jubilant  height  some  un 
toward  circumstance  occurred  to  dash  them. 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  he  said  fretfully  to  his  daugh- 


A  SEED  SOWN.  221 

ter,  "  that  as  a  Broxton  man  and — and  a  gentleman,  the 
people  would  have  been  with  me,  but  they  are  not." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Ffrench,  "they  are  not" 

She  knew  far  more  than  he  did  himself.  She  was  in 
the  habit  of  not  allowing  any  sign  to  escape  her.  When 
she  took  her  frequent  drives  she  kept  her  eyes  open  to  all 
that  happened. 

"  If  they  dared,  there  are  a  good  many  of  them  who 
would  be  insolent  to  me." 

"Why  should  they  not  dare?"  asked  her  father  with 
increased  irritation. 

"  Because  they  know  I  am  not  afraid  of  them — because 
I  set  them  at  defiance ;  and  for  another  reason." 

The  other  reason  which  she  did  not  state  had  nothing  to 
do  with  their  daring.  It  was  the  strong  one  that  in  the 
splendor  of  her  beauty  she  had  her  greatest  power.  Ordi- 
rary  womanhood  would  scarcely  in  itself  have  appealed 
to  the  chivalric  sentiment  of  Broxton,  Molton  and  Dillup, 
but  Rachel  Ffrench  driving  slowly  through  the  streets 
and  past  the  "  beer-house  "  doors,  and  turning  her  perfect, 
unmoved  face  for  criticism  to  the  crowd  collected  thereat, 
created  a  natural  diversion.  Those  who  had  previously 
been  in  a  sarcastic  mood?  lapsed  into  silence,  the  most  in 
veterate  'bacco  consumers  took  their  pipes  out  of  their 
mouths,  feeling  it  necessary  to  suspend  all  action  that  they 
might  look  after  her  with  a  clearer  appreciation.  They 
were  neither  touched  nor  softened,  but  they  were  certainly 
roused  to  an  active  admiration  which,  after  a  manner,  held 
them  in  check. 

"  Theer  is  na  another  loike  her  i'  England,"  was  once 
remarked  rather  sullenly  by  one.  "  Not  i'  England,  let 
aloan  Lancashire — an'  be  dom'd  to  her," — this  last  added 
with  a  shade  of  delicate  significance. 


222  "HAWORTWS." 

But  there  was  one  man  who  saw  her  with  eyes  different 
from  the  rest.  If  he  had  not  so  seen  her,  existence  would 
have  been  another  matter.  He  seemed  to  live  a  simple, 
monotonous  life.  He  held  his  place  in  the  Works,  and 
did  well  what  he  had  to  do.  He  was  not  very  thoroughly 
understood  by  his  fellows,  but  there  existed  a  vague  feel 
ing  of  respect  for  him  among  them.  They  had  become 
used  to  his  silence  and  absent-mindedness  and  the  tasks 
which  seemed  to  them  eccentricities.  His  responsibilities 
had  increased,  but  he  shouldered  them  without  making 
any  fuss  and  worked  among  the  rest  just  as  he  had  been 
wont  to  do  when  he  had  been  Floxharn's  right  hand 
in  the  engine-room.  In  more  select  circles  he  was  regard 
ed,  somewhat  to  his  distaste,  with  no  inconsiderable  in 
terest.  He  was  talked  of  privately  as  a  young  man  with 
a  future  before  him,  though  the  idea  of  what  that  future 
was  to  be,  being  gathered  from  Ffrench,  was  somewhat 
indefinite.  His  own  reserve  upon  the  subject  was  rather 
resented,  but  still  was  forgiven  on  the  score  of  eccentri 
city.  For  the  rest,  he  lived,  as  it  were,  in  a  dream.  The 
days  came  and  went,  but  at  the  close  of  each  there  were 
at  least  a  few  hours  of  happiness. 

And  yet  it  was  not  happiness  of  a  very  tangible  form. 
Sometimes,  when  he  left  the  house  and  stepped  into  the 
cool  darkness  of  the  night  outside,  he  found  himself 
stopped  for  a  moment  with  a  sense  of  bewilderment. 
Haworth,  who  sat  talking  to  his  partner  and  following 
Rachel  Ff  ranch's  figure  with  devouring  eyes,  had  gained 
as  much  as  he  himself.  She  had  not  spoken  often,  per 
haps,  and  had  turned  from  one  to  the  other  with  the  same 
glance  and  tone,  but  one  man  left  her  with  anger  and 
misery  in  his  breast,  and  the  other  wondered  at  his  own 
rapture. 


A  SEED  SOWN.  223 

"  I  have  done  nothing  and  gained  nothing,"  he  would 
often  say  to  himself  as  he  sat  at  the  work-table  afterward, 
"  but — I  am  madly  happy." 

And  then  he  would  lie  forward  with  his  head  upon  his 
folded  arms,  going  over  the  incidents  of  the  night  again 
and  again — living  the  seconds  over,  one  by  one. 

Haworth  watched  him  closely  in  these  days.  As  he 
passed  him  on  his  way  to  his  work-room,  he  would  look 
up  and  follow  him  with  a  glance  until  he  turned  in  at  its 
door.  He  found  ways  of  hearing  of  his  life  outside  and 
of  his  doings  in  the  Works. 

One  morning,  as  he  was  driving  down  the  road  toward 
the  town,  he  saw  in  the  distance  the  graceful  figure  of 
Mr.  Briarley,  who  was  slouching  along  in  the  somewhat 
muddled  condition  consequent  upon  the  excitement  of 
an  agreeably  convivial  evening  at  the  "  Who'd  ha'  Thowt 
it." 

He  gave  him  a  critical  glance  and  the  next  moment 
whipped  up  his  horse,  uttering  an  exclamation. 

"  There's  th'  chap,"  he  said,  "  by  th'  Lord  Harry  !  " 

In  a  few  seconds  more  he  pulled  up  alongside  of 
him. 

"  Stop  a  bit,  lad,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Briarley  hesitated  and  then  obeyed  with  some  sud 
denness.  A  delicately  suggestive  recollection  of  "  th' 
barrels"  induced  him  to  do  so.  He  ducked  his  head  with 
a  feeble  smile,  whose  effect  was  somewhat  obscured  by  a 
temporary  cloud  of  natural  embarrassment.  He  had  not 
been  brought  into  immediate  contact  with  Haworth  since 
the  strikes  began. 

"  Th'  same,"  he  faltered,  with  illusive  cheerfulness, — 
"  th'  same  to  yo'  an' — an'  mony  on  'em." 

Then  he  paused  and  stood  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand, 


224  «  HA  WORTH'S." 

endeavoring  painfully  to  preserve  the  smile  in  all  its 
pristine  beauty  of  expression. 

Haworth  leaned  forward  in  his  gig. 

"  You're  a  nice  chap,"  he  said.     "  You're  a  nice  chap." 

A  general  vague  condition  of  mind  betrayed  Mr.  Bri- 
arley  into  the  momentary  weakness  of  receiving  this 
compliment  literally.  He  brightened  perceptibly,  and 
his  countenance  became  suffused  with  the  roseate  blush 
of  manly  modesty. 

"  My  best  days  is  ower,"  he  replied.  "  I've  been  mis- 
forchnit,  Mester — but  theer  wur  a  toime  as  th'  opposite 
sect  ha'  said  th'  same — though  that  theer's  a  thing,"  re 
flecting  deeply  and  shaking  his  head,  "  as  I  nivver  re- 
moind  Sararann  on." 

The  next  moment  he  fell  back  in  some  trepidation. 
Haworth  looked  down  at  him  coolly. 

"  You're  a  pretty  chap,"  he  said,  "goin'  on  th5  strike 
an'  leaving  your  wife  and  children  to  starve  at  home 
wrhile  you  lay  in  your  beer  and  make  an  ass  of  yourself." 

"  Eh  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Eriarley. 

"  And  make  an  ass  of  yourself,"  repeated  Haworth, 
unmovedly.  "  You'd  better  be  drawin'  your  wages,  my 
lad." 

Mr.  Briarley's  expression  changed.  From  bewilder 
ment  he  passed  into  comparative  gloom. 

"  It  is  na  drawin'  'em  I've  getten  owt  agen,"  he  re 
marked.  "  It  is  na  drawin'  'em.  It's  earnin'  'em, — an' 
ha'iri'  'em  took  away  an' — an'  spent  i'  luxuries — berryin'- 
clubs  an'  th'  loike.  Brass  as  ud  buy  th'  nessycerries." 

"  If  we'd  left  you  alone,"  said  Haworth,  a  where  would 
your  wife  and  children  be  now,  you  scoundrel  ?  Who's 
fed  'em  and  clothed  'em  while  you've  been  on  th'  spree  ? 
Jem  Haworth,  blast  you  ! — Jem  Haworth." 


A  SEED  SOWN.  225 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and,  drawing  forth  a 
few  jingling  silver  coins,  tossed  them  to  him. 

"  Take  these,"  he  said,  "  an'  go  an'  spend  'em  on  th' 
1  nessycerries,'  as  yon  call  'em.  You'll  do  it,  I  know  well 
enow.  You'll  be  in  a  worse  box  than  you  are  now,  before 
long.  "We'll  have  done  with  you  chaps  when  Murdoch's 
finished  the  job  he's  got  on  hand." 

"  What's  that  ? "  faltered  Briarley.  "  I  ha'  na  heerd  on 
it." 

Haworth  laughed  and  picked  up  his  whip  and  reins. 

"  Ask  him,"  he  answered.  "  He  can  tell  you  better 
than  I  can.  He's  at  work  on  a  thing  that'll  set  the  mas 
ters  a  good  bit  freer  than  they  are  now.  That's  all  I 
know.  There  won't  be  any  need  o'  so  many  o'  you  lads. 
You'll  have  to  make  your  brass  out  of  a  new  trade." 

He  bent  a  little  to  settle  a  strap. 

"  Go  and  tell  the  rest  on  'em,"  he  said.  "  You'll  do  it 
when  you're  drunk  enow,  I  dare  say." 

Briarley  fumbled  with  his  coins.  His  air  became  specu 
lative. 

"What  are  you  thinkin'  on?"  demanded  Haworth. 
"  It's  a  bad  lookout,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Briarley  drew  a  step  nearer  the  gig's  side.  He  ap 
peared  somewhat  pale,  and  spoke  in  a  whisper.  Muddled 
as  he  was,  he  had  an  idea  or  so  left. 

"  It'll  be  a  bad  lookout  for  him,"  he  said.  "  Bless  yo' ! 
They'd  tear  him  to  pieces.  They're  in  th'  humor  for  it. 
They've  been  carryin'  a  grudge  so  long  they're  ready  fur 
owt.  They've  nivver  thowt  mich  o'  him,  though,  but 
start  'em  on  that  an'  they  wouldn't  leave  a  shred  o'  it  to 
gether — nor  a  shred  o'  him,  eyther,  if  they  got  the 
chance." 

Haworth  laughed  again. 
10* 


226  «  HA  WORTH'S." 

"  Wouldn't  they  ? "  he  said.  "  Let  'em  try.  He'd  have 
plenty  to  stand  by  him.  Th'  masters  are  on  his  side,  my 
lad."" 

He  touched  his  horse,  and  it  began  to  move.  Sud 
denly  he  checked  it  and  looked  back,  speaking  again. 

"  Keep  it  to  yourself,  then,"  he  said,  "  if  there's  dan 
ger,  and  keep  my  name  out  of  it,  by  George,  if  you  want 
to  be  safe  ! " 

Just  as  he  drove  up  to  the  gates  of  the  yard  Murdoch 
passed  him  and  entered  them.  Until  then— since  he  had 
left  Briarley — he  had  not  spoken.  He  had  driven  rapidly 
on  his  way  with  a  grim,  steady  face.  As  Murdoch  went 
by  he  got  down  from  his  gig,  and  went  to  the  horse's 
head.  He  stood  close  to  it,  knotting  the  reins. 

"  Nor  of  him  either,"  he  said.  "  Nor  of  him  either, 
by " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A    CLIMAX. 

THE  same  night  Mr.  Briarley  came  home  in  a  condi 
tion  more  muddled  and  disheveled  than  usual.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  been  hustled  about  and  somewhat  un 
ceremoniously  treated.  He  had  lost  his  hat,  and  was 
tremulous  and  excited.  He  came  in  without  the  trifling 
ceremony  of  opening  the  door.  In  fact,  he  fell  up  against 
it  and  ran  in,  and  making  an  erratic  dive  at  a  chair,  sat 
down.  Granny  Dixon,  who  had  been  dozing  in  her  usual 
seat,  was  roused  by  the  concussion  and  wakened  and  sat 
up,  glaring  excitedly. 

"  He's  been  at  it  again  !  "  she  shouted.  "  At  it  again  ! 
He'll  nivver  ha'  none  o'  my  brass  to  mak'  way  wi'.  He's 
been  at " 

Mrs.  Briarley  turned  upon  her. 

"  Keep  thy  mouth  shut "  she  said. 

The  command  was  effective  in  one  sense,  though  not  in 
another.  Mrs.  Dixon  stopped  in  the  midst  of  the  word 
"  at "  with  her  mouth  wide  open,  and  so  sat  for  some 
seconds,  with  the  aspect  of  an  ancient  beldam  ordinarily 
going  by  machinery  and  suddenly  having  had  her  works 
stopped. 

She  would  probably  have  presented  this  appearance 
for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  if  Mrs.  Briarley  had  not 
addressed  her  again. 


228  "  HAWOItTirS." 

"  Shut  thy  mouth !  "  she  said. 

The  works  were  set  temporarily  in  motion,  and  her 
countenance  slowly  resumed  its  natural  lines.  She  ap 
peared  to  settle  down  all  over  and  sink  and  become 
smaller,  though,  as  she  crouched  nearer  the  fire,  she  had 
rather  an  evil  look,  which  seemed  to  take  its  red  glow 
into  her  confidence  and  secretly  rage  at  it. 

"  What's  tha  been  doin'  ? "  Mrs.  Briarley  demanded  of 
her  better  half.  "  Out  wi'  it !  " 

Mr.  Briarley  had  already  fallen  into  his  favorite  posi 
tion.  He  had  placed  an  elbow  upon  each  knee  and  care 
fully  supported  his  disheveled  head  upon  his  hands.  He 
had  also  already  begun  to  shed  tears,  which  dropped  and 
made  disproportionately  large  circles  upon  the  pipe 
clayed  floor. 

u  I'm  a  misforchnit  chap,"  he  said.  "  I'm  a  misforch- 
iiit  chap,  Sararann,  as  nivver  had  no  luck." 

"  What's  tha  been  doin'  ? "  repeated  Mrs.  Briarley,  with 
even  greater  sharpness  than  before  ;  "  out  wi'  it !  " 

"Nay,"  said  Mr.  Briarley,  "that  theer's  what  I've  get- 
ten  mysen  i'  trouble  wi'.  I  wtinnot  do  it  again." 

"  Theer's  summat  i'  beer,"  he  proceeded,  mournfully, 
"  as  goes  agen  a  man.  He  towd  me  not  to  say  nowt  an'  I 
did  n.a  mean  to,  but,"  with  fresh  pathos,  "  theer's  summat 
i'  beer  as  winds — as  winds  a  chap  up,  I'm  not  mich  o' 
th'  speakin'  loine,  Sararann,  but  afore  I  knowed  it,  I  wur 
a-makin'  a  speech — an'  when  I  bethowt  me  an'  wanted  to 
set  down — they  wur  bound  to  mak'  me — go  on  to  th'  eend 
— an'  when  I  would  na — theer  wur  a  good  bit — o'  public 
opinion  igspressed — an'  I  did  na  stop — to  bid  'em  good- 
neet.  Theer  wur  too  much  agoin'  on." 

"  What  wur  it  aw  about  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Briarley. 

But  Mr.  Briarley 's  voice  had  been  gradually  becoming 


A   CLIMAX. 

lower  and  lower,  and  his  words  more  incoherent.  Ho 
was  sinking  into  slumber.  When  she  repeated  her  ques 
tion,  he  awakened  with  a  violent  start. 

"  I'm  a  misforchnit  chap,"  he  murmured,  "  an'  I  dunnot 
know.  'Scaped  me,  Sararann — owin'  to  misforchins." 

"  Eh  ! "  remarked  Mrs.  Briarley,  regarding  him  with 
connubial  irony,  "but  tha  art  a  graidely  foo'!  I'd  gie 
summat  to  see  a  graidelier  un  ! " 

But  he  was  so  far  gone  by  this  time  that  there  was  no 
prospect  of  a  clear  solution  of  the  cause  of  his  excitement. 
And  so  she  turned  to  Granny  Dixon. 

"  It's  toime  fur  thee  to  be  i'  bed,"  she  shouted. 

Granny  Dixon  gave  a  sharp,  stealthy  move  round,  and 
a  sharp,  stealthy  glance  up  at  her. 

"  I — dunnot  want  to  go,"  she  quavered  shrilly. 

"  Aye,  but  tha  does,"  was  the  answer.  "  An'  tha'rt 
goin'  too.  Get  up,  Missus." 

And  singularly  enough,  Mrs.  Dixon  fumbled  until  she 
found  her  stick,  and  gathering  herself  up  and  leaning 
upon  it,  made  her  rambling  way  out  of  the  room  carrying 
her  evil  look  with  her. 

"  Bless  us  !  "  Mrs.  Briarley  had  said  in  confidence  to  a 
neighbor  a  few  days  before.  "  I  wur  nivver  more  feart 
i'  my  life  than  when  I'd  done  it,  an'  th'  owd  besom  set 
theer  wi'  her  cap  o'  one  side  an'  her  breath  gone.  I  did 
na  know  but  I'd  put  an  eend  to  her.  I  nivver  should  ha' 
touched  her  i'  th'  world  if  I  had  na  been  that  theer  up 
set  as  I  did  na  know  what  I  wur  doin'.  I  thowt  she'd  be 
up  an'  out  i'  th'  street  as  soon  as  she'd  getten  her  breath 
an',  happen,  ca'  on  th'  porlice.  An'  to  think  it's  been  th' 
settlin'  on  her!  It  feart  me  to  see  it  at  th'  first,  but  I 
wur  na  goin'  to  lose  th'  chance  an'  th'  next  day  I  give  it 
to  her  up  an'  down — tremblin'  i'  my  shoes  aw  th'  toime. 


230  "II 

I  says,  c  Tha  may  leave  thy  brass  to  who  tha  loikes,  but 
tlia'lt  behave  thysen  while  tha  stays  here  or  Sararann 
Briarley'll  see  about  it.  So  mak'  up  thy  moind.'  An' 
I've  nivver  had  a  bit  o'  trouble  wi'  her  fro'  then  till  now. 
She  conna  bide  th'  soight  o'  me,  but  she  dare  na  go  agen 
me  fur  her  life." 

The  next  day  Ha  worth  went  away  upon  one  of  his  mys 
terious  journeys. 

"  To  Leeds  or  Manchester,  or  perhaps  London,"  said 
Ffrench.  "  I  don't  know  where." 

The  day  after  was  Saturday,  and  in  the  afternoon 
Janey  Briarley  presented  herself  to  Mrs.  Murdoch  at  an 
early  hour,  and  evidently  with  something  on  her  mind. 

"  I  mun  get  through  wi'  th'  cleanin'  an'  go  whoam 
soon,"  she  said.  "Th'  stroikers  is  over  fro'  Molton  an' 
Dillup  again.  Theer's  summat  up  among  'em." 

"  We  dunnot  know  nowt  about  it,"  she  answered,  when 
further  questioned.  "  We  on'y  know  they're  here  an'  i' 
a  ill  way  about  summat  they've  fun  out.  Feyther,  he's 
aw  upset,  but  he  dare  na  say  nowt  fur  fear  o'  th'  Union. 
Mother  thinks  they've  getten  summat  agen  Ffrench." 

"Does  Mr.  Ffrench  know  that?"  Mrs.  Murdoch 
asked. 

"  He'll  know  it  soon  enow,  if  he  does  na,"  dryly. 
"  They'll  noan  stand  back  at  tellin'  him  if  they're  i'  th' 
humor — but  he's  loiker  to  know  than  not.  He's  too  feart 
on  'em  not  to  be  on  th'  watch." 

It  was  plain  enough  before  many  hours  had  passed  that 
some  disturbance  was  on  foot.  The  strikers  gathered 
abdut  the  streets  in  groups,  or  lounged  here  and  there 
sullenly.  They  were  a  worse-looking  lot  than  they  had 
been  at  the  outset.  Idleness  and  ill-feeling  and  dissipa- 


A   CLIMAX.  231 

tion  had  left  their  marks.  Clothes  were  shabbier,  faces 
more  brutal  and  habits  plainly  more  vicious. 

At  one  o'clock  Mr.  Ffrench  disappeared  from  his  room 
at  the  bank,  no  one  knew  exactly  how  or  when.  All  the 
morning  he  had  spent  in  vacillating  between  his  desk 
and  a  window  looking  into  the  street.  There  was  a 
rumor  among  the  clerks  that  he  had  been  seen  vanishing 
through  a  side  door  leading  into  a  deserted  little  back 
street. 

An  hour  later  he  appeared  in  the  parlor  in  which  his 
daughter  sat  He  was  hot  and  flurried  and  out  of  breath. 

"Those  scoundrels  are  in  the  town  again,"  he  said. 
"  And  there  is  no  knowing  what  they  are  up  to.  It  was 
an  insane  thing  for  Haworth  to  go  away  at  such  a  time. 
By  night  there  will  be  an  uproar." 

"If  there  is  an  uproar,"  said  Miss  Ffrench,  "  they  will 
come  here.  They  know  they  can  do  nothing  at  the 
Works.  He  is  always  ready  for  them  there — and  they 
are  angrier  with  you  than  they  are  with  him." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  they  should  be,"  Ffrench  pro 
tested.  "  /  took  no  measures  against  them,  heaven 
knows." 

"  I  think,"  returned  Kachel,  "  that  is  the  reason.  You 
have  been  afraid  of  them." 

He  colored  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"  You  are  saying  a  deuced  unpleasant  thing,  my  dear," 
he  broke  forth. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  answered.  "  What  would  be  the  use 
in  not  saying  it  ?  " 

He  had  no  reply  to  make.  The  trouble  was  that  he 
never  had  a  reply  to  make  to  these  deadly  simple  state 
ments  of  hers. 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 


232  "HAWORTITS." 

"  The  people  we  invited  to  dine  with  us,"  she  said, 
"  will  not  come.  They  will  hear  what  is  going  on  and 
will  be  afraid.  It  is  very  stupid." 

"  I  wonder,"  he  faltered,  "  if  Murdoch  will  fail  us. 
He  never  did  before." 

"  lS~o,"  she  answered.     "  He  will  not  stay  away." 

The  afternoon  dragged  its  unpleasant  length  along. 
As  it  passed  Ffrench  found  in  every  hour  fresh  cause  for 
nervousness  and  excitement.  The  servant  who  had  been 
out  brought  disagreeable  enough  tidings.  The  small 
police  force  of  the  town  had  its  hands  full  in  attending 
to  its  business  of  keeping  order. 

"  If  we  had  had  time  to  send  to  Manchester  for  some 
assistance,"  said  Mr.  Ffrench. 

"  That  would  have  been  reason  enough  for  being  at 
tacked,"  said  liachel.  "  It  would  have  shown  them  that 
we  felt  we  needed  protection." 

"  We  may  need  it,  before  all  is  quiet  again,"  retorted 
her  father. 

"  We  may,"  she  answered,  "  or  we  may  not.5' 

By  night  several  arrests  had  been  made,  and  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  disorder  in  the  town.  A  goodly  quantity 
of  beer  had  been  drunk  and  there  had  been  a  friendly 
fight  or  so  among  the  strikers  themselves. 

Hachel  left  her  father  in  the  drawing-room  and  went 
upstairs  to  prepare  for  dinner.  When  she  returned  an 
hour  afterward  he  turned  to  her  with  an  impatient  start. 

"  Why  did  you  dress  yourself  in  that  manner  ? "  he 
exclaimed.  "  You  said  yourself  our  guests  would  not 
come." 

"It  occurred  to  me,"  she  answered,  "that  we  might 
have  visitors  after  all." 

But  it  was  as  she  had  prophesied, — the  guests  they  had 


A   CLIMAX. 

expected  did  not  come.  They  were  discreet  and  well- 
regulated  elderly  people  who  had  lived  long  in  the  manu 
facturing  districts,  and  had  passed  through  little  unpleas 
antnesses  before.  They  knew  that  under  existing  circum 
stances  it  would  be  wiser  to  remain  at  home  than  to  run 
the  risk  of  exposing  themselves  to  spasmodic  criticism 
and  its  results. 

But  they  had  visitors. 

The  dinner  hour  passed  and  they  were  still  alone. 
Even  Murdoch  had  not  come.  A  dead  silence  reigned  in 
the  room.  Ffrench  was  trying  to  read  and  not  succeed 
ing  very  well.  Miss  Ffrench  stood  by  the  window  look 
ing  out.  It  was  a  clear  night  and  the  moon  was  at  full ; 
it  was  easy  to  see  far  up  the  road  upon  whose  whiteness 
the  trees  cast  black  shadows.  She  was  looking  up  this 
road  toward  the  town.  She  had  been  watching  it  steadily 
for  some  time.  Once  her  father  had  turned  to  her  rest 
lessly,  saying  : 

"  Why  do  you  stand  there  ?  You — you  might  be  ex 
pecting  something  to  happen." 

She  did  not  make  any  reply  and  still  retained  her  posi 
tion.  But  about  half  an  hour  afterward,  she  turned  sud 
denly  and  spoke  in  a  low,  clear  tone. 

"  If  you  are  afraid,  you  had  better  go  away,"  she  said. 
"  They  are  coming." 

It  was  evident  that  she  at  least  felt  no  alarm,  though 
there  was  a  thrill  of  excitement  in  her  voice.  Mr. 
Ffrench  sprang  up  from  his  seat. 

"  They  are  coming  !  »  he  echoed.  "  Good  God  !  What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

It  was  not  necessary  that  she  should  enter  into  an  ex 
planation.  A  clamor  of  voices  in  the  road  told  its  own 
story.  There  were  shouts  and  riotous  cries  which,  in  a 


234  "HA  WORTH'S." 

moment  more,  were  no  longer  outside  the  gates  but  with 
in  them.  An  uproarious  crowd  of  men  and  boys  poured 
into  the  garden,  trampling  the  lawn  and  flower-beds  be 
neath  their  feet  as  they  rushed  and  stumbled  over  them. 

"  Wheer  is  he  ?  "  they  shouted.  "  Bring  the  chap  out, 
an'  let's  tak'  a  look  at  him.  Bring  him  out !  " 

Ffrench  moved  toward  the  door  of  the  room,  and  then, 
checked  by  some  recollection,  turned  back  again. 

"  Good  Heaven  !  "  he  said,  "  they  are  at  their  worst, 
and  here  we  are  utterly  alone.  Why  did  Haworth  go 
away?  Why " 

His  daughter  interrupted  him. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  your  staying."  she  said.  "  It  will 
do  no  good.  You  may  go  if  you  like.  There  is  the  back 
way.  None  of  them  are  near  it." 

"  I — I  can't  leave  you  here,"  he  stammered.  "  Haworth 
was  mad !  Why,  in  Heaven's  name " 

"  There  is  no  use  asking  why  again,"  she  replied.  "  I 
cannot  tell  you.  I  think  you  had  better  go." 

Her  icy  coldness  would  have  been  a  pretty  hard  thing 
to  bear  if  he  had  been  less  terror-stricken ;  but  he  saw 
that  the  hand  with  which  she  held  the  window-curtain 
was  shaking. 

He  did  not  know,  however,  that  it  was  not  shaking  with 
fear,  but  with  the  power  of  the  excitement  which  stirred 
her. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  that  he  would  have  left  her,  not 
withstanding  his  panic,  though,  for  a  second,  it  nearly 
seemed  that  he  had  so  far  lost  self-control  as  to  be  waver 
ing  ;  but  as  he  stood,  pale  and  breathless,  there  arose  a 
fresh  yell. 

"  Wheer  is  he  ?  Bring  him  out !  Murdoch,  th'  'Meri- 
can  chap !  We're  coom  to  see  him  !  " 


A    CLIMAX. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  asked.     "  Who  is  it  they  want  ?  " 

"  Murdoch !  Murdoch ! "  was  shouted  again.  "  Let's 
ha'  a  word  wi'  Murdoch !  We  lads  ha'  summat  to  say  to 
him ! " 

"  It  is  not  I  they  want,"  he  said.  "  It  is  Murdoch.  It 
is  not  1  at  all !  " 

She  dashed  the  window-curtain  aside  and  turned  on  him. 
lie  was  stunned  by  the  mere  sight  of  her  face.  Every 
drop  of  blood  seemed  driven  from  it. 

"  You  are  a  coward  !  "  she  cried,  panting.  "  A  coward ! 
It  is  a  relief  to  you  !  " 

lie  stood  staring  at  her. 

"  A — a  relief !  "  he  stammered.  "  I — don't  understand 
you.  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

She  had  recovered  herself  almost  before  he  had  begun 
to  speak.  It  was  over  in  a  second.  He  had  not  had  time 
to  realize  the  situation  before  she  was  moving  toward  the 
window. 

"  They  shall  see  me,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  see  what  they 
will  have  to  say  to  me" 

He  would  have  stopped  her,  but  she  did  not  pay  the 
slightest  attention  to  his  exclamation.  The  window  was 
a  French  one,  opening  upon  a  terrace.  She  flung  it  back 
ward,  and  stepped  out  and  stood  before  the  rioters. 

For  a  second  there  was  not  a  sound. 

They  had  been  expecting  to  see  a  man, — perhaps 
Ffrench,  perhaps  Murdoch,  perhaps  even  a  representative 
of  the  small  police  force,  looking  as  if  he  felt  himself 
one  too  many  in  the  gathering,  or  not  quite  enough, — and 
here  was  simply  a  tall  young  woman  in  a  dazzling  dress 
of  some  rjch  white  stuff,  and  with  something  sparkling 
upon  her  hands  and  arms  and  in  her  high-dressed  blonde 
hair. 


236  «  HA  WORTH'S." 

The  moonlight  struck  full  upon  her,  and  she  stood  in  it 
serene  and  bore  unmoved  the  stupid  stare  of  all  their  eyes. 
It  was  she  who  spoke  first,  and  then  they  knew  her,  and 
the  spell  which  held  them  dumb  was  broken. 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  she  demanded.  "  I  should  like 
to  hear." 

Then  they  began  to  shout  again. 

"  We  want  Murdoch  ! "  they  said.  "  We  ha'  summat  to 
say  to  him." 

"  He  is  not  here,"  she  said.     "  He  has  not  been  here." 

"  That's  a  lee,"  remarked  a  gentleman  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  crowd.  "  A  dom'd  un." 

She  made  no  answer,  and,  singularly  enough,  nobody 
laughed. 

"  Why  do  you  want  him  ? "  she  said  next. 

"  We  want  to  hear  about  that  contrapshun  o'  his  as  is 
goin'  to  mak'  th'  mesters  indypendent.  He  knows  what 
we  want  him  fur.  We've  just  been  to  his  house  and 
brokken  th'  winders.  He's  getten  wind  on  us  comin',  an' 
he  made  off  wi'  th'  machine.  He'll  be  here  afore  long  if 
he  is  na  here  now,  an'  we're  bound  to  see  him." 

"  He'll  be  up  to  see  thee,"  put  in  the  gentleman  on  the 
outskirts,  "  an'  I  dunnot  blame  him.  I'm  glad  I  coom 
my  sen.  Tha's  worth  th'  trip — an'  I'm  a  Dillup  chap, 
moind  yoV 

She  stood  quite  still  as  before  and  let  them  look  at  her, 
to  see  what  effect  the  words  had  produced.  It  seemed  as 
if  they  had  produced  none. 

"  If  you  have  come  to  see  him,"  she  said,  after  a  few 
seconds,  "  you  may  go  away  again.  He  is  not  here.  I 
know  where  he  is,  and  you  cannot  reach  him.  If  there 
has  not  been  some  blunder,  he  is  far  enough  away." 

She  told  the  lie  without  flinching  in  the  least,  and  with 


A    CLIMAX.  237 

a  clever  coolness  which  led  her  to  think  in  a  flash  before 
hand  even  of  the  clause  which  would  save  her  dignity  if 
he  should  chance  to  come  in  the  midst  of  her  words. 

"  If  you  want  to  break  windows,"  she  went  on,  "  break 
them  here.  They  can  be  replaced  afterward,  and  there  is 
no  one  here  to  interfere  with  you.  If  you  would  like  to 
vent  your  anger  upon  a  woman,  vent  it  upon  me.  1  am 
not  afraid  of  you.  Look  at  me  !  " 

She  took  half  a  step  forward  and  presented  herself  to 
them — motionless.  Not  a  fellow  among  them  but  felt  that 
she  would  not  have  stirred  if  they  had  rushed  upon  her 
bodily.  The  effect  of  her  supreme  beauty  and  the  cold 
defiance  which  had  in  it  a  touch  of  delicate  insolence, 
was  indescribable.  This  was  not  in  accordance  with  their 
ideas  of  women  of  her  class;  they  were  used  to  seeing 
them  discreetly  keeping  themselves  in  the  shade  in  time 
of  disorder.  Here  was  one — "  one  of  the  nobs,"  as  they 
said — who  flung  their  threats  to  the  wind  and  scorned 
them. 

What  they  would  have  done  when  they  recovered  them- 
selves  is  uncertain.  The  scale  might  have  turned  either 
way;  but,  just  in  the  intervening  moment  which  would 
have  decided  it,  there  arose  a  tumult  in  their  midst.  A 
man  pushed  his  way  with  mad  haste  through  the  crowd 
and  sprang  upon  the  terrace  at  her  side,  amid  yells  and 
hoots  from  those  who  had  guessed  who  he  was. 

An  instant  later  they  all  knew  him,  though  his  dress 
was  disordered,  his  head  was  bare,  and  his  whole  face  and 
figure  seemed  altered  by  his  excitement. 

"  Dom  him ! "  they  yelled.     "  Theer  he  is,  by ! " 

"I  towd  thee  he'd  coom,"  shouted  the  cynic.  "He  did 
na  get  th'  tellygraph,  tha  sees." 

He  turned  on  them,  panting  and  white  with  rage. 


238  "HAWORTU'S." 

11  You  devils  !  "  he  cried.     "  You  are  here  too  ! 
you  done   enough  ?     Isn't  bullying  and  frightening  two 
women  enough  for  you,  that  you  must  come  here?" 

"  That's  reet,"  commented  the  cynic.  "  Stond  up  fur 
th'  young  woman,  Murdoch.  I'd  do  it  mysen  i'  I  wur  o' 
that  soide.  Allus  stond  up  fur  th'  sect ! " 

Murdoch  spoke  to  Rachel  Ffrerich. 

"  You  must  go  in,"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  knowing 
what  they  will  do." 

"  I  shall  stay  here,"  she  answered. 

She  made  an  impatient  gesture.  She  was  shuddering 
from  head  to  foot. 

"  Don't  look  at  or  speak  to  me,"  she  said.  "  You — you 
make  me  a  coward." 

"  They  will  stand  at  nothing,"  he  protested. 

"I  will  not  turn  my  back  upon  them,"  she  said.  "Let 
them  do  their  worst." 

He  turned  to  the  crowd  again.  Her  life  itself  was  in 
danger,  and  he  knew  he  could  not  move  her.  He  was 
shuddering  himself. 

"  Who  is  your  leader  ? "  he  said  to  the  men.  "  I  sup 
pose  you  have  one." 

The  man  known  as  Foxy  Gibbs  responded  to  their  cries 
of  his  name  by  pushing  his  way  to  the  front.  He  was  a 
big,  resolute,  hulking  scamp  who  had  never  been  known 
to  do  an  honest  day's  work,  and  was  yet  always  in  funds 
and  at  liberty  to  make  incendiary  speeches  where  beer  and 
tobacco  were  plentiful. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  demanded  Murdoch. 
"  Speak  out." 

The  fellow  was  ready  enough  with  his  words,  and  forci 
ble  too. 

"  We've  heard  tell  o'  summat  goin'  on  we're  not  goin' 


A   CLIMAX.  239 

to  stond,"  he  said.  "  We've  lieerd  tell  o'  a  chap  'at's  con- 
trivin'  snmmat  to  do  away  wi'  them  as  does  th'  work  now 
an'  mak's  theer  bread  by  it.  We've  heerd  as  th'  mesters 
is  proidin'  theersens  on  it  an'  laughin'  in  their  sleeves. 
We've  heerd  tell  as  theer's  a  chap  makkin'  what'll  eend  i' 
mischief — an'  yo're  th'  chap." 

"  Who  told  you?" 

"  Nivver  moind  who.  A  foo'  let  it  out,  an'  we  wur  na 
in  th'  humor  to  let  it  pass.  We're  goin'  to  sift  th'  thing 
to  th'  bottom.  Yo're  th'  chap  as  was  nam't.  What  ha' 
yo'  getten  to  say  ?  " 

"  Just  one  thing,"  he  answered.  u  It's  a  lie  from  first 
to  last — an  accursed  lie !  " 

"  Lee  or  not,  we're  goin'  to  smash  th'  thing,  whatever  it 
is.  We're  noan  particular  about  th'  lee.  We'll  mak'  th' 
thing  safe  first,  an'  then  settle  about  th'  lee." 

Murdoch  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  eyed  them 
with  his  first  approach  to  his  usual  sang-froid. 

"  It's  where  you  won't  find  it,"  he  said.  "  I've  made 
sure  of  that." 

It  was  a  mad  speech  to  have  made,  but  he  had  lost  self- 
control  and  balance.  He  was  too  terribly  conscious  of 
Rachel  Ffrench's  perilous  nearness  to  be  in  the  mood  to 
weigh  his  words.  He  saw  his  mistake  in  a  second.  There 
was  a  shout  and  a  surging  movement  of  the  mob  toward 
him,  and  Rachel  Ffrench,  with  an  indescribable  swiftness, 
had  thrown  herself  before  him  and  was  struck  by  a  stone 
which  came  whizzing  through  the  air. 

She  staggered  under  the  stroke  but  stood  upright  in  a 
breadth's  time. 

"  My  God  ! "  Murdoch  cried  out.  "  They  have  struck 
you.  They  have  struck  you !  " 

He  was  half  mad  with  his  anguish  and  horror.     The 


240  "  HA  WORTH'S." 

sight  of  the  little  stream  of  blood  which  trickled  from  her 
temple  turned  him  sick  with  rage. 

"  You  devils!"  he  raved,  "do  you  see  what  you  have 
done?" 

But  the  play  was  over.  Before  he  had  finished  his  out 
cry  there  was  a  shout  of  "  th'  coppers !  th'  coppers !  "  and 
a  rush  and  skurry  and  tumble  of  undignified  retreat. 
The  police  force  with  a  band  of  anti-strikers  behind  them 
had  appeared  upon  the  scene  in  the  full  glory  of  the  uni 
form  of  the  corporation,  and  such  was  the  result  of  habit 
and  the  majesty  of  the  law  that  those  who  were  not  taken 
into  custody  incontinently  took  to  their  heels  and  scattered 
in  every  direction,  uttering  curses  loud  and  deep,  since  they 
were  not  yet  prepared  to  resist  an  attack  more  formally. 

In  half  an  hour  the  trampled  grass  and  flower-beds  and 
broken  shrubs  were  the  only  signs  of  the  tumult.  Mr. 
Ffrench  was  walking  up  and  down  the  dreary  room  in  as 
nervous  a  condition  as  ever. 

"  Good  heavens,  Rachel ! "  he  said.  "  You  must  have 
been  mad — mad." 

She  had  persistently  refused  to  lie  down  and  sat  in  an 
easy-chair,  looking  rather  colorless  and  languid.  When 
they  were  left  alone,  Murdoch  came  and  stood  near  her. 
He  was  paler  than  she,  and  haggard  and  worn.  Before 
she  knew  what  he  was  about  to  do  he  fell  upon  his  knees, 
and  covered  her  hands  with  kisses. 

"  If  any  harm  had  come  to  you,"  he  cried — "  if  any 
harm  had  come  to  you " 

She  tried  to  drag  her  hands  away  with  an  angry  face, 
but  he  clung  to  them.  And  then  quite  suddenly  all  her 
resistance  ceased  and  her  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  him 
as  if  with  a  kind  of  dread. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


IN  expectation  of  something  very  serious  happening, 
the  constabulary  re-enforced  itself  the  day  following  and 
assumed  a  more  imposing  aspect,  and  was  prepared  to  be 
very  severe  indeed  upon  all  short-comings  or  symptoms  of 
approaching  disorder.  But  somewhat  to  its  private  dis 
appointment,  an  unlooked-for  quiet  prevailed — an  almost 
suspicious  quiet,  indeed.  There  were  rumors  that  a  secret 
meeting  had  been  held  by  the  strikers  the  night  before, 
and  the  result  of  it  was  that  in  the  morning  there  ap 
peared  to  have  been  a  sudden  dispersing,  and  only  those 
remained  behind  who  were  unavoidably  detained  by  the 
rather  unfortunate  circumstance  of  having  before  them 
the  prospect  of  spending  a  few  weeks  in  the  compar 
ative  retirement  of  the  comity  jail.  These  gentlemen 
peremptorily  refused  to  give  any  definite  explanation  of 
their  eccentricities  of  conduct  of  the  night  before  and 
were  altogether  very  unsatisfactory  indeed,  one  of  them 
even  going  so  far,  under  the  influence  of  temporary  ex 
citement,  as  to  be  guilty  of  the  indiscretion  of  announcing 
his  intention  of  "  doin'  fur "  one  or  two  enemies  of  his 
cause  when  his  term  expired,  on  account  of  which  amiable 
statement  three  months  were  added  to  said  term  upon  the 
spot. 

It  was  Janey  Briarley  who  gave  Murdoch  his  warning 
11 


24:2  "HAWORT&S." 

upon  the  night  of  the  riot.  Just  before  he  left  the  Works 
she  had  come  into  the  yard,  saying  she  had  a  message  for 
Ilaworth,  and  on  being  told  that  lie  was  away,  had  asked 
for  Murdoch. 

"  He'll  do  if  I  canna  see  th'  mester,"  she  remarked. 

But  when  she  reached  Murdoch's  room  she  stepped 
across  the  threshold  and  shut  the  door  cautiously. 

"Con  anybody  hear  ?"  she  demanded,  with  an  uneasy 
glance  round. 

"  No,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  cut  thy  stick  as  fast  as  tha  con  an'  get  thee 
whoara  an'  lioid  away  that  thing  tha'rt  makkin.  Th' 
stroikers  is  after  it.  Nivver  moind  how  I  fun'  out.  Cut 
an'  run.  I  axt  fur  Ilaworth  to  throw  'em  off  th'  scent. 
I  knowed  he  wurna  here.  Haste  thee !  " 

Her  manifest  alarm  convinced  him  that  there  was  foun 
dation  enough  for  her  errand,  and  that  she  had  run  some 
risk  in  venturing  it. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  You  may  have  saved  me  a 
great  deal.  Let  us  go  out  quietly  as  if  nothing  was  in 
hand.  Come  along." 

And  so  they  went,  he  talking  aloud  as  they  passed 
'through  the  gates,  and  as  it  was  already  dusk  he  was  out 

o  o  *  •- 

on  the  Broxton  road  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  and  when 
he  returned  the  mob  had  been  to  his  mother's  house  and 
broken  a  few  windows  in  their  rage  at  his  having  escaped 
them,  and  had  gone  off  shouting  that  they  would  go  to 
Ffrenclrs. 

"  He'll  be  fun  theer,"  some  one  said — possibly  the  cynic. 
"  Th'  young  woman  is  a  sweetheart  o'  his  an'  yo'll  be  loike 
to  hear  o'  th'  cat  wheer  th'  cream  stonds." 

His  mother  met  him  on  the  threshold  with  the  news  of 
the  outbreak  and  the  direction  it  had  taken.  A  few  brief 


"/  AM  NOT  READY  FOR  IT   YET:1 

sentences  told  him  all,  and  at  the  end  of  them  he  left  the 
house  at  once. 

"  I  am  going  there  to  show  myself  to  them,"  he  said. 
"  They  will  not  return  here.  You  are  safe  enough  now. 
The  worst  is  over  here,  but  there  is  no  knowing  what 
they  may  do  there  when  they  find  themselves  bafned." 

It  was  after  midnight  when  he  came  back,  and  then  it 
was  Christian  who  opened  the  door  for  him. 

He  came  into  the  little  dark  passage  with  a  slow,  un 
steady  step.  For  a  second  he  did  not  seem  to  see  her  at 
all.  His  face  was  white,  his  eyes  were  shining  and  his 
brow  was  slightly  knit  in  lines  which  might  have  meant 
intense  pain. 

"  Are  you  hurt  ?  "  she  asked. 

It  was  as  if  her  voice  wakened  him  from  a  trance.  He 
looked  at  her  for  the  first  time. 

"  Hurt !  "  he  echoed.     "  No— not  hurt." 

He  went  into  the  sitting-room  and  she  followed  him. 
The  narrow  horse-hair  sofa  upon  which  his  father  had  lain 
so  often  stood  in  its  old  place.  He  threw  himself  full 
length  upon  it  and  lay  looking  straight  before  him. 

"  Are  you — are  you  sure  you  are  not  hurt  ?  "  she  fal 
tered. 

He  echoed  her  words  again. 

"  Am  I  sure  I  am  not  hurt  ? "  he  repeated  dreamily. 
"  Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

And  then  he  turned  slightly  toward  her  and  she  saw 
that  the  look  his  face  wore  was  not  one  of  pain,  but  of 
strange  rapture. 

"  I  am  not  hurt,"  he  said  quite  slowly.  "  I  am  madly 
happy." 

Then  she  understood.  She  was  as  ignorant  of  many 
things  as  she  was  bitterly  wise  in  others,  but  she  had  not 


244  "HAWOKTH'S" 

been  blind  and  she  understood  quite  clearly.  She  sat 
down  upon  a  low  seat,  from  which  she  could  see  him,  her 
hands  clasped  on  her  knee. 

"  I  knew,"  she  said  at  last,  "  that  it  would  come  some 
day — I  knew  that  it  would." 

"  Did  you  ? "  he  answered  in  the  same  dreamy  way. 
"  I  did  not.  I  did  not  even  hope  for  it.  I  do  not  compre 
hend  it  even  now." 

"  I  do,"  she  returned,  "  quite  well." 

He  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  her. 

"  I  hoped  for  nothing,"  he  said.  "  And  now — I  am 
madly  happy." 

There  was  nothing  more  for  her  to  say.  She  had  a 
fancy  that  perhaps  in  the  morning  he  would  have  for 
gotten  that  he  had  spoken.  It  seemed  as  if  even  yet  he 
was  hardly  conscious  of  her  presence.  But  before  she 
went  away  she  asked  him  a  question. 

"  Where  did  you  put  the  model  ? " 

He  gave  a  feverish  start. 

"  Where  ?"  And  falling  back  into  his  previous  man 
ner — "I  took  it  to  the  chapel  yard.  I  knew  they  would 
not  go  there.  There  was  space  enough  behind  the — the 
head-stone  and  the  old  wall  for  it  to  stand,  and  the  grass 
grew  long  and  thick.  I  left  it  there." 

"  It  was  a  safe  place,"  she  answered.  "  When  shall  you 
bring  it  back  ?  " 

He  sighed  impatiently. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  said.  "  Not  just  yet.  Let  it  stay  there  a 
while.  I  am  not — ready  for  it.  Let  it  stay." 


CHAPTEK  XXXYI. 

SETTLING    AN    ACCOUNT. 

IT  was  not  until  the  week  following  that  Haworth  re* 
turned,  and  then  he  came  without  having  given  any  pre 
vious  warning  of  his  intention.  Ffrench,  sitting  in  his 
office  in  a  rather  dejected  mood  one  morning,  was  startled 
by  his  entering  with  even  less  than  his  usual  small  cere 
mony. 

"  My  dear  Haworth,"  he  exclaimed.     "  Is  it  possible  !  " 

His  first  intention  had  been  to  hold  out  his  hand,  but  he 
did  not  do  so.  In  fact  he  sat  down  again  a  little  suddenly 
and  uneasily.  Haworth  sat  down  too,  confronting  him 
squarely. 

"  What  have  you  been  up  to  ? "  he  demanded.  "  What 
is  this  row  about  ? " 

"  About !  "  echoed  Ffrench.  "  It's  the  most  extraordi 
nary  combination  of  nonsense  and  misunderstanding  I 
ever  heard  of  in  my  life.  How  it  arose  there  is  no  know 
ing.  The  fellows  are  mad ! " 

"  Aye,"  angrily,  "  mad  enow,  but  you  can't  stop  'em 
now  they've  got  agate.  It's  a  devilish  lookout  for  us. 
I've  heard  it  all  over  the  country,  and  the  more  you  say 
agen  it  the  worse  it  is.  They're  set  on  it  all  through  Lan 
cashire  that  there's  a  plot  agen  'em,  and  they're  fur  fettlin7 
it  their  own  fashion." 

"  You — you  don't  think  it  will  be  worse  for  us  ? "  his 


246  "HAWORTH'S." 

partner  suggested  weakly.  "  It's  struck  me  that — in  the 
end — it  mightn't  be  a  bad  thing — that  it  would  change  the 
direction  of  their  mood." 

"  Wait  until  the  end  ccmes.  It's  not  here  yet.  Tell 
me  how  it  happened." 

Upon  the  whole,  Mr.  Ffrench  made  a  good  story  of  it. 
He  depicted  the  anxieties  and  dangers  of  the  occasion 
very  graphically.  He  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  his  enthu 
siasm  on  the  subject  of  the  uncultivated  virtues  and 
sturdy  determination  of  the  manufacturing  laboring  classes, 
and  he  was  always  fluent,  as  has  been  before  mentioned. 
He  was  very  fluent  now,  and  especially  so  in  describing  the 
incident  of  his  daughter's  presenting  herself  to  the  mob 
and  the  result  of  her  daring. 

"  She  might  have  lost  her  life,"  he  said  at  one  point. 
"  It  was  an  insane  thing  to  have  done — an  insane  thing. 
She  surprised  them  at  first,  but  she  could  not  hold  them 
in  check  after  Murdoch  came.  She  will  bear  the  mark 
of  the  stone  for  many  a  day." 

"  They  threw  a  stone,  blast  'em,  did  they  ?  "  said  Ha- 
worth,  setting  his  teeth. 

«  Yes — but  not  at  her.  Perhaps  they  would  hardly 
have  dared  that  after  all.  It  was  thrown  at  Murdoch." 

"  And  he  stepped  out  of  the  way  ? " 

"  Oh  no.  He  did  not  see  the  man  raise  his  arm,  but 
she  did,  and  was  too  much  alarmed  to  reflect,  I  suppose 
— and — in  fact  threw  herself  before  him." 

He  moved  back  disturbedly  the  next  instant.  Haworth 
burst  forth  with  a  string  of  oaths.  The  veins  stood  out 
like  cords  on  his  forehead  ;  he  ground  his  teeth.  When 
the  outbreak  was  over  he  asked  an  embarrassing  question. 

"  Where  were  you  ?  " 

«  1 1 » — with  some  uncertainty  of  tone.     "  I — had  not 


SETTLING  AN  ACCOUNT.  247 

gone  out.  I — I  did  not  wish  to  infuriate  them.  It  seemed 
to  me  that — that — that  a  great  deal  depended  upon  their 
not  being  infuriated." 

"  Aye,"  said  Ha  worth,  u  a  good  deal." 

He  asked  a  good  many  questions  Ffrench  did  not  quite 
understand.  He  seemed  in  a  questioning  humor  and 
went  over  the  ground  step  by  step.  He  asked  what  the 
mob  had  said  and  done  and  even  how  they  had  looked. 

"  It's  a  bad  lookout  for  Murdoch,"  he  said.  "  They'll 
have  a  spite  again'  him.  They're  lyin'  quiet  a  bit  now, 
because  it's  safest,  but  they'll  carry  their  spite." 

At  Ffrench's  invitation  he  went  up  to  the  house  with 
him  to  dinner.  As  they  passed  into  the  grounds,  Murdoch 
passed  out.  He  was  walking  quickly  and  scarcely  seemed 
to  see  them  until  Ffrench  spoke. 

"  It's  a  queer  time  of  day  for  him  to  be  here,"  said  Ila- 
worth,  when  he  was  gone. 

Ffrench's  reply  held  a  touch  of  embarrassment. 

"  He  is  not  usually  here  so  early,"  he  said.  "  He  has 
probably  been  doing  some  little  errand  for  Rachel." 

The  truth  was  that  he  had  been  with  her  for  an  hour, 
and  that,  on  seeing  Ha  worth  coming  down  the  road  with 
her  father,  she  had  sent  him  away. 

"  I  want  to  be  alone  when  he  comes,"  she  had  said. 

And  when  Murdoch  said  "  Why  ?  "  she  had  answered, 
"  Because  it  will  be  easier." 

When  they  came  in,  she  was  sitting  with  the  right  side 
of  her  face  toward  them.  They  could  see  nothing  of  the 
mark  upon  her  left  temple.  It  was  not  a  large  mark 
nor  a  disfiguring  one,  but  there  were  traces  of  its  presence 
in  her  pallor.  She  did  not  rise,  and  would  have  kept  this 
side  of  her  face  out  of  view,  but  Haworth  came  and  took 
his  seat  before  her.  It  would  not  have  been  easy  for  her 


248  "HAWORTWS." 

to  move  or  change  her  position — and  he  looked  directly 
at  the  significant  little  bruise.  His  glance  turned  upon 
it  again  and  again  as  he  talked  to  her  or  her  father ;  if  it 
wandered  off  it  came  back  and  rested  there.  During  din 
ner  she  felt  that,  place  herself  as  she  would,  in  a  few 
seconds  she  would  be  conscious  again  that  he  had  baffled 
her.  For  the  first  time  in  his  experience,  it  was  he  who 
had  the  advantage. 

But  when  they  returned  to  the  parlor  she  held  herself 
in  check.  She  placed  herself  opposite  to  him  and  turned 
her  face  toward  him,  and  let  him  look  without  flinching. 
It  was  as  if  suddenly  she  wished  that  he  should  see,  and 
had  a  secret  defiant  reason  for  the  wish.  It  seemed  a 
long  evening,  but  she  did  not  lose  an  inch  of  ground  after 
this.  When  he  was  going  away  she  rose  and  stood  before 
him.  Her  father  had  gone  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and  was  fussing  unnecessarily  over  some  memoranda.  As 
they  waited  together,  Haworth  took  his  last  look  at  the 
mark  upon  her  temple. 

"  If  it  had  been  me  you  wore  it  for,"  he  said,  "  I'd  have 
had  my  hands  on  the  throat  of  the  chap  that  did  it  before 
now.  It  wasn't  me,  but  I'll  find  him  and  pay  him  for  it 
yet,  by  George  !  " 

She  had  no  time  to  answer  him.  Her  father  came  to 
ward  them  with  the  papers  in  his  hands.  Haworth  lis 
tened  to  his  wordy  explanation  without  moving  a  line  of 
his  face.  He  did  not  hear  it,  and  Ffrench  was  dimly 
aware  of  the  fact. 

About  half  an  hour  after,  the  door  of  the  bar- parlor  of 
the  "  Who'd  ha'  Thowt  it "  was  flung  open. 

"  Where's  Briarley  ? "  a  voice  demanded.  "  Send  him 
out  here.  I  want  him — Haworth." 


SETTLING  AN  ACCOUNT.  249 

Mr.  Briarley  arose  in  even  more  than  his  usual  trepida 
tion.     He  looked  from  side  to  side,  quaking. 

"  Wheer  is  he  ?  "  he  asked. 

Haworth  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"  Here,"  he  answered.     "  Come  out !  " 

Mr.  Briarley  obeyed.  At  the  door  Haworth  collared 
him  and  led  him  down  the  sanded  passage  and  into  the 
road  outside. 

A  few  yards  from  the  house  there  was  a  pump.  He 
piloted  him  to  it  and  set  him  against  it,  and  began  to 
swear  at  him  fluently. 

"  You  blasted  scoundrel !  "  he  said.  "  You  let  it  out, 
did  you  ? " 

Mr.  Briarley  was  covered  with  confusion  as  with  a  gar 
ment. 

"I'm  a  misforchnit  chap  as  is  all  us  i'  trouble,"  he  said. 
"  Theers  summat  i'  ivverythin'  I  lay  hond  on  as  seems  to 
go  agen  me.  I  dunnot  see  how  it  is.  Happen  theer's 
summat  i'  me  a-bein'  a  dom'd  foo',  or  happen  it's  nowt 
but  misforchin.  Sararann " 

Haworth  stopped  him  by  swearing  again,  something 
more  sulphurously  than  before — so  sulphurously,  indeed, 
that  Mr.  Briarley  listened  with  eyes  distended  and  mouth 
agape. 

"  Let's  hear  what  you  know  about  th'  thing,"  Haworth 
ended. 

Mr.  Briarley  shut  his  mouth.  He  would  have  kept  it 
shut  if  he  had  dared. 

"I  dunnot  know  nowt,"  he  answered,  with  patient 
mendacity.  "  I  wur  na  wi'  em." 

"  You  know  plenty,"  said  Haworth.  "  Out  with  it,  if 
you  don't  want  to  get  yourself  into  trouble.  Who  was  the 

chap  that  threw  the  stone  ?  " 
11* 


250  "  HAWORTH' S." 

u  I — I  dunnot  know." 

"  If  you  don't  tell  me,"  said  Haworth,  through  his 
clenched  teeth,  "  it'll  be  worse  for  you.  It  was  you  I  let 
the  truth  slip  to ;  you  were  the  first  chap  that  heard  it, 
and  you  were  the  first  chap  that  started  the  row  and 


egged  it  on." 


"  I  did  na  egg  it  on,"  protested  Mr.  Briarley.  "  It  did 
na  need  no  eggin'  on.  They  pounced  on  it  like  cats  on  a 
bird.  I  did  na  mean  to  tell  'em  owt  about  it.  I'm  a 
dom'd  foo'.  I'm  th'  dom'dest  foo'  fro  here  to  Dillup." 

"  Aye,"  said  Haworth,  sardonically,  "  that's  like  enow. 
Who  was  the  chap  that  threw  the  stone  ? " 

He  returned  to  the  charge  so  swiftly  and  with  such  fell 
determination  that  Mr.  Briarley  began  fairly  to  whim 
per. 

"  I  dare  na  tell,"  he  said.  "  They'd  mak'  quick  work 
o'  me  if  they  fun  me  out." 

"  Who  was  it  ?  "  persisted  Haworth.  "  They'll  make 
quicker  work  of  you  at  the  *  Old  Bailey,'  if  you  don't." 

Mr.  Briarley  turned  his  disreputable,  battered  cap  round 
and  round  in  his  nervous  hands.  He  was  mortally  afraid 
of  Haworth. 

"  A  man's  gotten  to  think  o'  his  family,"  he  argued. 
"  If  he  dunnot  think  o'  hissen,  he  mun  think  o'  his  family. 
I've  getteri  a  mortal  big  un — twelve  on  'em  an'  Sararann, 
as  ud  be  left  on  th'  world  if  owt  wur  to  happen — twelve 
on  'em  as  ud  be  left  wi'out  no  one  to  stand  by  'em  an'  pcr- 
vide  fur  'em.  Theer's  nowt  a  fam'ly  misses  so  mich  as  th' 
head.  The  head  should  na  run  no  risks.  It's  th'  head's 
duty  to  tak'  care  o'  hissen  an'  keep  o'  th'  safe  soide." 

"  Who  threw  the  stone  ? "  said  Haworth. 

Mr.  Briarley  gave  him  one  cowed  glance  and  broke 
down. 


SETTLING  AN  ACCOUNT.  251 

"  It  wur  Tummas  Reddy,"  he  burst  forth  helplessly. 
"  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  me  ! " 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  He's  i'  theer,"  jerking  his  cap  toward  the  bar-room, 
"  an'  I'm  i'  th'  worst  mess  I  ivver  wur  i'  i'  my  loife.  I'm 
fettlit  now,  by  th'  Lord  Harry  !  " 

"  Which  way  does  he  go  home  ?  " 

"  Straight  along  the  road  here,  if  I  mun  get  up  to  my 
neck — an' — an'  be  dom'd  to  him  ! — if  I  may  tak'  th'  lib 
erty." 

"  Settle  yourself  to  stand  here  till  he  comes  out,  and 
then  tell  me  which  is  him." 

"  Eh !  " 

"  When  he  comes  out  say  the  word,  and  stay  here  till  he 
Joes.  I've  got  a  bit  o'  summat  to  settle  with  him." 

"  Will  ta — will  ta  promise  tha  will  na  let  out  who  did 
it?  If  tha  does,  th'  buryin'  club'll  ha'  brass  to  pay  out 
afore  a  week's  over." 

"  You're  safe  enow,"  Haworth  answered,  "  if  you'll  keep 
your  mouth  shut.  They'll  hear  nowt  from  me." 

A  gleam  of  hope — a  faint  one — illumined  Mr.  Briarley's 
countenance. 

"  I  would  na  ha'  no  objections  to  tha  settlin'  wi'  him," 
he  said.  "  I  ha'  not  nowt  agen  that.  He's  a  chap  as  I  am 
na  fond  on,  an'  he's  getten  more  cheek  than  belongs  to 
him.  I'd  ha'  settled  wi'  him  mysen  if  I  had  na  been  a 
fam'ly  man.  Ila'in'  a  fam'ly  to  think  on  howds  a  man 
back.  Theer — I  hear  'em  comin'  now.  Would  yo,'  "  in 
some  hurry,  "  ha'  owt  agen  me  gettin'  behind  th' 
pump  ? " 

"  Get  behind  it,"  answered  Haworth,  "  and  be  damned 
to  you ! " 

He  got  behind  it  with  alacrity,  and,  as  it  was  not  a 


252  "HAWORTH'S." 

large  pump,  was  driven  by  necessity  to  narrowing  himself 
to  its  compass,  as  it  were,  and  taking  up  very  little  room. 
Ha  worth  himself  drew  back  somewhat,  and  yet  kept 
within  hearing. 

Four  or  five  men  came  out  and  went  their  different 
ways,  and  Mr.  Briarley  made  no  sign  ;  but  as  the  sixth,  a 
powerful,  clumsy  fellow,  passed,  he  uttered  a  cautious 
"Theerheis!" 

Haworth  did  not  stir.  It  was  a  dark,  cloudy  night,  and 
he  was  far  enough  from  the  road  to  be  safe  from  dis 
covery.  The  man  went  on  at  a  leisurely  pace. 

Mr.  Briarley  re-appeared,  breathing  shortly. 

"  I  muu  go  whoam,"  he  said.  "  Sararann "  and 

scarcely  waiting  for  Haworth's  signal  of  dismissal,  he  de 
parted  as  if  he  had  been  shot  from  a  string-bow,  and  fled 
forth  into  the  shadows. 

Mr.  Reddy  went  at  a  leisurely  pace,  as  has  been  before 
observed.  He  usually  went  at  a  leisurely  pace  when  he 
was  on  his  way  home.  He  was  a  "  bad  lot "  altogether, 
and  his  home  was  a  squalid  place,  and  his  wife  more  fre 
quently  than  not  had  a  black  eye  or  a  bruised  face,  and 
was  haggard  with  hunger  and  full  of  miserable  plaints 
and  reproaches.  Consequently  he  did  not  approach  the 
scenes  of  his  domestic  joys  with  any  haste. 

He  was  in  a  worse  hurnor  than  usual  to-night  from 
various  causes,  the  chief  one,  perhaps,  being  that  he  had 
only  had  enough  spirituous  liquor  to  make  him  savage  and 
to  cause  him  to  enliven  his  way  with  blasphemy. 

Suddenly,  however,  at  the  corner  of  a  lane  which 
crossed  the  road  he  paused.  He  heard  behind  him  the 
sound  of  heavy  feet  nearing  him  with  a  quick  tramp  which 
somehow  presented  to  his  mind  the  idea  of  a  purpose,  and 


SETTLING  AN  ACCOUNT.  253 

for  some  reason,  not  exactly  clear  to  himself,  he  turned 
about  and  waited. 

"  Who's  that  theer  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It's  me,"  he  was  answered.  "  Stand  up  and  take  thy 
thrashing  my  lad." 

The  next  instant  he  was  struggling  in  the  darkness  with 
an  assailant,  and  the  air  was  hot  with  oaths,  and  they  were 
writhing  together  and  panting,  and  striking  blinding 
blows.  Sometimes  it  was  one  man  and  then  the  other 
who  was  uppermost,  but  at  last  it  was  Ha  worth,  and  he 
had  his  man  in  his  grasp. 

"  This  is  because  you  hit  the  wrong  mark,  my  lad,"  he 
said.  "Because  luck  went  agen  you,  and  because  it's 
gone  agen  me." 

When  he  had  done  Mr.  Reddy  lay  beaten  into  seeming 
insensibility.  He  had  sworn  and  gnashed  his  teeth  and 
beaten  back  in  vain. 

"  Who  is  it,  by ? "  he  panted.     "  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  Haworth,"  he  was  answered.  "  Jem  Haworth,  my 
lad." 

And  he  was  left  there  lying  in  the  dark  while  Haworth 
walked  away,  his  heavy  breathing  a  living  presence  in 
the  air  until  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

A    SUMMER    AFTERNOON. 

"  LET  it  stay  there  a  while,"  Murdoch  had  said.  "  I  am 
not  ready  for  it  yet."  And  it  staid  there  between  the 
head-stone  and  the  old  stone  wall  covered  with  the  long 
grass  and  closed  in  by  it.  He  was  not  ready  for  it — yet. 
The  days  were  not  long  enough  for  him  as  it  was.  His 
mother  and  Christian  rarely  saw  him,  but  at  such  times 
as  they  did  each  recognized  in  him  a  new  look  and  under 
stood  it.  He  began  to  live  a  strange,  excited  life. 
Haehel  Ffrench  did  nothing  by  halves.  He  was  seen  with 
her  constantly.  It  continually  happened  that  where  she 
was  invited  he  was  invited  also.  He  forgot  that  he 
dreaded  to  meet  strangers  and  had  always  held  aloof  from 
crowds.  There  were  no  strangers  now  and  no  crowds  ;  in 
any  gathering  there  was  only  one  presence  and  this  was 
enough  for  him.  When  people  would  have  cultivated  him 
and  drawn  him  out,  he  did  not  see  their  efforts ;  when 
men  and  women  spoke  to  him  they  found  that  he  scarcely 
heard  them  and  that  even  as  they  talked  he  had  uncon 
sciously  veered  toward  another  point.  He  did  things 
sometimes  which  made  them  stare  at  him. 

"  The  fellow  is  like  a  ghost,"  a  man  said  of  him  once. 

The  simile  was  not  a  bad  one.  lie  did  not  think  of 
what  he  might  be  winning  or  losing — for  the  time  being 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON.  255 

mere  existence  was  all-sufficient.  At  night  he  scarcely 
slept  at  all.  Often  he  got  np  and  rambled  over  the  coun 
try  in  the  darkness,  not  knowing  where  he  was  going  or 
why  he  walked.  He  went  through  the  routine  of  the  day 
in  haste  and  impatience,  doing  more  work  than  was  neces 
sary  and  frequently  amazing  those  around  him  by  losing 
his  temper  and  missing  his  mark.  Ffrench  began  to  re 
gard  him  with  wonder.  Divers  things  were  a  source  of 
wonder  to  Ffrench,  in  these  days.  He  understood  Rachel 
less  than  ever  and  found  her  less  satisfactory.  He  could 
not  comprehend  her  motives.  He  had  become  accustomed 
to  feeling  that  she  always  had  a  motive  in  the  background, 
and  he  made  the  natural  mistake  of  supposing  that  she 
had  one  now.  But  she  had  none.  She  had  suddenly 
given  way  to  a  mysterious  impulse  which  overmastered 
her  and  she  let  herself  go,  as  it  were.  It  did  not  matter 
to  her  that  the  time  came  when  her  course  was  discussed 
and  marveled  at ;  upon  the  whole,  she  felt  a  secret  pleasure 
in  defying  public  comment  as  usual,  and  going  steadily  in 
her  own  path. 

She  did  strange  things  too.  She  began  to  go  among  the 
people  who  knew  Murdoch  best, — visiting  the  families  of 
the  men  who  worked  under  him,  and  leading  them  on 
to  speak  of  him  and  his  way  of  life.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  the  honest  matrons  she  honored  by  her  visits  were 
very  fond  of  her  or  exactly  rejoiced  when  she  appeared. 
They  felt  terribly  out  of  place  and  awe-stricken  when  she 
sat  down  on  their  wooden  chairs  with  her  rich  dress  lying 
upon  the  pipe-clayed  floors.  Her  beauty  and  her  grandeur 
stunned  them,  however  much  they  admired  both. 

"I  tell  yo'  she's  a  lady,"  they  said.  "  She  knows  nowt 
about  poor  folk,  bless  yo',  but  she's  getten  brass  to  gie 
away — an'  she  gies  it  wi'out  makin'  a  doment.  I  mun 


256  "  HAWOETH'8." 

say  it  puts  me  out  a  bit  to  see  her  coom  in,  but  she  does 
na  go  out  wi'out  leavin'  summat." 

She  made  no  pretense  of  bringing  sympathy  and  con 
solation  ;  she  merely  gave  money,  and  money  was  an 
equivalent,  and  after  all  it  was  something  of  an  event  to 
have  her  carriage  stop  before  the  gate  and  to  see  her  de 
scend  and  enter  in  all  her  splendor.  The  general  vague 
idea  which  prevailed  was  that  she  meant  to  be  charitable 
after  the  manner  of  her  order, — but  that  was  a  mistake 
too. 

It  happened  at  last  that  one  day  her  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  house  at  whose  window  Murdoch's  mother  and 
Christian  sat  at  work. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  Janey  Briarley,  in  her  "  cleanin' 
up  "  apparel  opened  the  door  for  her. 

"  They're  in  th'  parlor,"  she  answered  in  reply  to  her 
question.  "  Art  tha  coom  to  see  'em  ? ?> 

When  she  was  ushered  into  the  parlor  in  question,  Mrs. 
Murdoch  rose  with  her  work  in  her  hand ;  Christian  rose 
also  and  stood  in  the  shadow.  They  had  never  had  a 
visitor  before,  and  had  not  expected  such  a  one  as  this. 

They  thought  at  first  that  she  had  come  upon  some 
errand,  but  she  had  not.  She  gave  no  reason  for  her 
presence  other  than  she  would  have  given  in  making  any 
call  of  ceremony. 

As  she  sat  on  the  narrow  sofa,  she  saw  all  the  room  and 
its  meagerness, — its  smallness,  its  scant,  plain  furnishing  ; 
its  ugly  carpet  and  walls  ;  the  straight,  black  dress  of  the 
older  woman,  the  dark  beauty  of  the  girl  who  did  not  sit 
down  but  stood  behind  her  chair,  watching.  This  beauty 
was  the  only  thing  which  relieved  the  monotony  of  the 
place,  but  it  was  the  most  grating  thing  she  saw,  to  Rachel 
Ff rench.  It  roused  within  her  a  slow  anger.  She  resented 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON.  257 

it  and  felt  that  she  would  like  to  revenge  herself  upon  it 
quietly.  She  had  merely  meant  to  try  the  effect  of  these 
people  and  their  surroundings  upon  herself  as  a  fine  ex 
periment,  but  the  effect  was  stronger  than  she  had  antici 
pated.  When  she  went  away  Christian  accompanied  her 
to  the  door. 

In  the  narrow  passage  Rachel  Ffrench  turned  and 
looked  at  her — giving  her  a  glance  from  head  to  foot. 

"  I  think  I  have  seen  you  before,"  she  said. 

"  You  know  you  have  seen  me,"  the  girl  answered. 

"  I  have  seen  you  on  the  Continent.  Your  apartment 
was  opposite  to  ours  in  Paris — when  you  were  with  your 
mother.  I  used  to  watch  the  people  go  in  and  out.  You 
are  very  like  your  mother." 

And  she  left  her,  not  looking  back  once,— as  if  there 
was  no  living  creature  behind,  or  as  if  she  had  forgotten 
that  there  was  one. 

Christian  went  back  to  the  room  within.  She  sat  down 
but  did  not  take  up  her  work  again. 

"  Do  you  know  why  she  came  ? "  she  asked. 

"Yes> 

"Why?" 

"  She  came  to  look  at  us — to  see  what  manner  of  people 
we  were — to  see  how  we  lived — to  measure  the  distance 
between  our  life  and  hers.  As  she  went  away,"  she 
went  on,  "  she  remembered  that  she  had  seen  me  before. 
She  told  me  that  I  was  very  like  my  mother." 

She  leaned  forward,  her  hands  clasped  palm  to  palm 
between  her  knees. 

"  There  was  a  man  who  did  my  mother  a  great  wrong 
once,"  she  said.  "  They  had  loved  each  other  in  a  mad 
sort  of  way  for  a  long  time,  but  in  the  end,  I  suppose,  he 
got  tired,  for  suddenly  he  went  away.  When  he  was 


258  i*  HA  WORTH'S." 

gone,  my  mother  did  not  speak  of  him  and  it  was  as  if 
he  had  never  lived,  but  she  grew  haggard  and  dreadful 
and  lost  her  beauty.  I  was  a  little  child  and  she  took  me 
with  her  and  began  to  travel  from  one  place  to  another. 
I  did  not  know  why  at  first,  but  I  found  out  afterward. 
She  was  following  him.  She  found  him  in  Paris,  at  last, 
after  two  years.  One  foggy  night  she  took  me  to  a  nar 
row  street  near  one  of  the  theaters,  and  after  we  got  there 
1  knew  she  was  waiting  for  some  one,  because  she  walked 
to  and  fro  between  two  of  the  street  lamps  dragging  me 
by  the  hand.  She  walked  so  for  half  an  hour,  and  then 
the  man  came,  not  knowing  we  were  there.  She  went  to 
him,  dragging  me  with  her,  and  when  she  stood  in  front 
of  him,  threw  back  her  veil  and  let  the  light  shine  upon 
her.  She  lifted  her  hand  and  struck  him — struck  him 
full  upon  the  face,  panting  for  breath.  1 1  am  a  woman,' 
she  said.  '  1  am  a  woman  and  I  have  struck  you  !  Re 
member  it  to  your  last  hour  as  I  shall ! '  I  thought  that 
he  would  strike  her  back,  but  he  did  not.  His  hands  fell 
at  his  sides,  and  he  stood  before  her  pale  and  helpless. 
I  think  it  was  even  more  terrible  than  she  had  meant  it 
to  be " 

Mrs.  Murdoch  stopped  her,  almost  angrily. 

"  Why  do  you  go  back  to  it  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  Why 
should  you  think  of  such  a  story  now  ?  " 

"  It  came  to  me,"  she  answered.  "  1  was  thinking  that 
it  is  true  that  I  am  like  her, — I  bear  a  grudge  such  a  long 
time,  and  it  will  not  die  out.  It  is  her  blood  which  is 
strong  in  me.  She  spoke  the  truth." 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Rachel  Ffrench,  sauntering 
about  the  garden  in  the  sun,  saw  Murdoch  coming  down 
the  road  toward  the  house, — not  until  he  had  first  seen 
her,  however.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  when  she 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON.  259 

t  nrned,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  found  it  impossible  to  re 
move  them,  even  for  a  breath's  time.  Since  his  glance 
had  first  caught  the  pale  blue  of  her  dress  he  had  not 
once  looked  away  from  it.  All  the  morning,  in  the  midst 
of  the  smoke  and  din  of  the  workrooms,  he  had  been 
thinking  of  the  hours  to  come.  The  rest  of  the  day  lay 
before  him.  The  weather  was  dazzling;  the  heat  of 
summer  was  in  the  air;  the  garden  was  ablaze  with 
flowers  whose  brightness  seemed  never  to  have  been  there 
before ;  there  was  here  and  there  the  drone  of  a  bee,  and 
now  and  again  a  stir  of  leaves.  The  day  before  had  been 
of  another  color  and  so  might  the  morrow  be,  but  to-day 
left  nothing  to  be  believed  in  except  its  own  sun  and 
beauty. 

When  at  last  he  was  quite  near  her,  he  seemed  for  a 
little  while  to  see  nothing  but  the  faint  pale  blue  of  her 
dress.  He  never  forgot  it  afterward,  and  never  remembered 
it  without  a  sense  of  summer  heat  and  languor.  He  could 
not  have  told  what  he  said  to  her,  or  if  he  at  first  spoke 
at  all.  Soon  she  began  to  move  down  the  path  and  he 
followed  her, — simply  followed  her, — stopping  when  she 
stopped  to  break  a  flower  from  its  stem. 

It  was  as  she  bent  forward  once  that  she  told  him  of 
what  she  had  done. 

"  This  morning,"  she  said,  "  I  went  to  see  your 
mother." 

"  She  told  me  so,"  he  answered. 

She  broke  the  stem  of  the  flower  and  stood  upright, 
holding  it  in  her  hand. 

'*  You  do  not  ask  me  why  I  went." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  she  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  said,  with  perfect  deliberateness : 


260  "HAWORTH'S." 

"  I  have  known  nothing  of  the  life  you  live.  I  wanted 
to  see  it  for  myself.  I  wanted — to  bring  it  near." 

He  drew  quite  close  to  her,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes 
burning. 

4 'Near!"  he  repeated.  "To  bring  it  near*  Do  you 
— do  you  know  what  you  have  said  ? " 

"To  bring  it  near,"  she  said  again,  with  no  less  delib- 
erateness  than  before,  but  with  a  strange  softness. 

Just  for  to-day,  she  had  told  herself,  she  would  try  the 
sensation  of  being  swept  onward  by  the  stream.  But  she 
weighed  herself  as  she  spoke,  and  weighed  him  and  his 
passion,  and  her  power  against  its  force. 

But  he  came  no  closer  to  her.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
touch  even  her  hand  or  her  dress.  His  own  hands  fell 
helplessly  at  his  sides,  and  he  stood  still  before  her. 

"  Oh,  God !  "  he  said  in  a  hushed  voice,  "  How  happy 
lam!" 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

"  GOD   BLESS    YOU  !  " 

LATE  the  same  night,  Mrs.  Haworth,  who  had  been 
watching  for  her  son  alone  in  the  grand,  desolate  room  in 
which  it  was  her  lot  to  sit,  rose  to  her  feet  on  hearing  him 
enter  the  house. 

The  first  object  which  met  his  eye  when  he  came  in  was 
her  little  figure  and  her  patient  face  turned  toward  the 
door.  As  he  crossed  the  threshold,  she  took  a  few  steps 
as  if  to  meet  him,  and  then  stopped. 

"  Jem ! "  she  exclaimed.     "  Jem  ! " 

Her  voice  was  tremulous  and  her  eyes  bright  with  the 
indefinable  feeling  which  seized  upon  her  the  moment  she 
saw  his  face.  Her  utterance  of  his  name  was  a  cry  of 
anxiousness  and  fear. 

"  What !  "  he  said.     u  Are  you  here  yet  3 " 

He  came  to  her  and  laid  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder  in  a 
rough  caress. 

"  You'd  better  go  to  bed,"  he  said  to  her.  "  It's  late, 
and  I've  got  work  to  do." 

"  I  felt,"  she  answered,  "  as  if  I'd  like  to  wait  an'  see 
you.  I  knowed  I  should  sleep  better  for  it — I  always 
do." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  in  which  she  stroked  his 
sleeve  with  her  withered  hand.  Then  he  spoke. 


262  "  UA  WORTH'S." 

"Sleep  better!"  he  said.  "That's  a  queer  notion. 
You've  got  queer  fancies,  you  women — some  on  you." 

Then  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  awkwardly.  He  always 
did  it  with  more  or  less  awkwardness  and  lack  of  ease, 
but  it  never  failed  to  make  her  happy. 

"  Now  you've  done  it,"  he  said.  "  You'd  better  go,  old 
lady,  and  leave  me  to  finish  what  I've  got  to  do." 

"  It's  late  for  work,  Jem,"  she  answered.  "  You 
oughtn't  to  try  yourself  so  much." 

"  It  ain't  work  so  much,"  he  said,  "  as  thinking.  There's 
suinmat  I've  got  to  think  out." 

For  the  moment  he  seemed  quite  to  forget  her.  lie 
stood  with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets  and  his  feet 
apart,  staring  at  the  carpet.  He  did  not  stir  when  she 
moved  away,  and  was  still  standing  so  when  she  turned  at 
the  door  to  look  at  him. 

What  she  saw  brought  her  back,  hurried  and  tearful. 

"  Let  me  stay !  "  she  cried.  "  Let  me  stay.  There's 
trouble  in  your  face,  Jem,  for  I  see  it.  Don't  keep  it 
from  me — for  the  sake  of  what  we've  been  through  to 
gether  in  times  that's  past." 

He  bestirred  himself  and  looked  up  at  her. 

"  Trouble !  "  he  repeated.  "  That's  not  the  word.  It's 
not  trouble,  old  lady,  and  it's  naught  that  can  be  helped. 
There's  me  and  it  to  fight  it  out.  Go  and  get  your  sleep 
and  leave  us  to  it." 

She  went  slowly  and  sadly.  She  always  obeyed  him, 
whatever  his  wish  might  be. 

When  the  last  sound  of  her  faltering  feet  had  died  away 
upon  the  stairs,  he  went  to  the  side-board  and  poured  out 
a  glass  of  raw  brandy  and  drank  it. 

"  I  want  summat  to  steady  me,"  he  said, — "  and  to  warm 


"  GOD  BLESS  YOU!"  263 

But  it  did  not  steady  him,  at  least.  When  he  sat  down 
at  the  table,  the  hand  he  laid  upon  it  shook. 

He  looked  at  it  curiously,  clinching  and  unclinching  it. 

"  I'm  pretty  well  done  for  when  it  goes  like  that,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  farther  gone  than  I  thought.  It's  all  over  me 
— over  and  through  me.  I'm  shaking  like  a  fool." 

He  broke  out  with  a  torrent  of  curses. 

"  Is  it  me  that's  sitting  here,"  he  cried,  "  or  some  other 
chap  ?  Is  it  me  that  luck's  gone  agen  on  every  side  or  a 
chap  that's  nseder  to  it  ? " 

Among  all  his  pangs  of  humiliation  and  baffled  passion 
there  was  not  one  so  subtle  and  terrible  in  its  influence 
upon  him  as  his  momentary  sense  of  physical  weakness. 
He  understood  it  less  than  all  the  rest,  and  raged  against 
it  more.  His  body  had  never  failed  him  once,  and  now 
for  the  first  time  he  felt  that  its  power  faltered.  He  was 
faint  and  cold,  and  trembled  not  merely  from  excitement 
but  from  loss  of  strength. 

Opposite  to  him,  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  was  a 
full-length  mirror.  Accidentally  raising  his  eyes  toward  it 
he  caught  sight  of  his  own  face.  He  started  back  and  un 
consciously  glanced  behind  him. 

"  Who  -    -  1  "  he  began. 

And  then  he  stopped,  knowing  the  face  for  his  own- 
white-lipped,  damp  with  cold  sweat,  lined  with  harsh  fur 
rows — evil  to  see.  He  got  up,  shaking  his  fist  at  it,  cry 
ing  out  through  his  shut  teeth. 

"  Blast  her  !  "  he  said.     "  Who's  to  blame  but  her  ?  " 

He  had  given  up  all  for  her,  his  ambition,  which  had 
swept  all  before  it,  his  greatest  strength,  his  very  sins  and 
coarseness,  and  half  an  hour  ago  he  had  passed  the  open 
door  of  a  room  and  had  seen  Murdoch  standing  motionless, 
not  uttering  a  word,  but  with  his  face  fairly  transfigured 


264  "HAWORTH'S." 

by  his  ecstasy,  and  with  her  hand  crushed  against  his 
breast. 

He  had  gone  in  to  see  Ff  rencli,  and  had  remained  with 
him  for  an  hour  in  one  of  the  parlors,  knowing  that  the 
two  were  alone  in  the  other.  He  had  heard  their  voices 
now  and  then,  and  had  known  that  once  they  went  upon 
the  terrace  and  talked  there.  He  had  grown  burning  hot 
and  deadly  cold,  and  strained  his  ears  for  every  sound,  but 
never  caught  more  than  a  word  or  low  laugh  coining  from 
Rachel  Ffrench.  At  last  he  had  left  his  partner,  and  on 
liis  way  out  passed  the  open  door.  They  had  come  back 
to  the  room,  and  Murdoch  was  saying  his  good-night.  He 
hold  Rachel  Ffrench's  hand,  and  she  made  no  effort  to 
withdraw  it,  but  gave  it  to  his  caress.  She  did  not  move 
nor  speak,  but  her  eyes  rested  upon  his  rapt  face  with  an 
expression  not  easy  to  understand.  Haworth  did  not  un 
derstand  it,  but  the  rage  which  seized  and  shook  him  was 
the  most  brutal  emotion  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life.  It 
was  a  madness  which  left  him  weak.  He  staggered  down 
the  stairs  and  out  into  the  night  blindly,  blaspheming  as 
he  went.  He  did  not  know  how  he  reached  home.  The 
sight  his  mother  had  seen,  and  which  had  drawn  a  cry 
from  her  and  checked  her  midway  in  the  room  had  been 
cause  enough  for  tremor  in  her.  Nothing  but  the  most 
violent  effort  had  saved  him  from  an  outbreak  in  her  pres 
ence.  He  was  weaker  for  the  struggle  when  she  was 
gone. 

He  could  think  of  nothing  but  of  Rachel  Ffrench's  un 
translatable  face  and  of  Murdoch's  close  clasp  of  her  sur 
rendered  hand. 

"  What  has  she  ever  give  me  ? "  he  cried.  "  Me,  that's 
played  the  fool  for  her  !  What's  he  done  that  he  should 
stand  there  and  fondle  her  as  if  he'd  bought  and  paid  for 


"  GOD  B1;E8S   YOU!"  265 

her  ?  I'm  the  chap  that  paid  for  her !  She's  mine,  body 
and  soul,  by  George,  if  every  man  had  his  rights !  " 

And  then,  remembering  all  that  had  gone  by,  he  turned 
from  hot  to  cold  again. 

"  I've  stood  up  agen  her  a  long  time,"  he  said,  "  and 
what  have  I  got  ?  1  swore  I'd  make  my  way  with  her, 
and  how  far  have  I  gone  ?  She's  never  give  me  a  word, 
by  George,  or  a  look  that  'd  be  what  another  woman  would 
have  give.  She's  not  even  played  with  me — most  on  'em 
would  have  done  that — but  she's  not.  She's  gone  on  her 
way  and  let  me  go  on  mine.  She's  turned  neither  right 
nor  left  for  me — I  wasn't  man  enough." 

He  wore  himself  out  in  the  end  and  went  to  the  brandy 
again,  and  drank  of  it  deeply.  It  sent  him  upstairs  with 
heated  blood  and  feverish  brain.  It  was  after  midnight 
when  he  went  to  his  room,  but  not  to  sleep.  He  lay  upon 
his  pillow  in  the  darkness  thinking  of  the  things  he  had 
done  in  the  past  few  months,  and  of  the  fruit  the  first  seed 
he  had  sown  might  bring  forth. 

"  There's  things  that  may  happen  to  any  on  us,  my  lad," 
he  said,  "  and  some  on  'em  might  happen  to  you.  If  it's 
Jem  Haworth  that's  to  lose,  the  other  sha'n't  gain,  by 
George !  " 

He  had  put  the  light  out  and  lay  in  the  darkness,  and 
was  so  lying  with  this  mood  at  work  upon  him  when 
there  came  a  timid  summons  on  the  door,  and  it  opened 
and  some  one  came  in  softly. 

He  knew  who  it  was,  even  before  she  spoke. 

"  Jem,"  she  said,  "  Jem,  you're  not  asleep,  my  dear." 

"No,"  he  answered. 

She  came  to  the  bed-side  and  stood  there. 

"  I— I  couldn't  sleep,"  she  said.  "  Something's  a  little 
wrong  with  me.  I'm  gettin'  foolish,  an'— an'  fearful.  I 
12 


266  "HAWORTHJS» 

felt  as  if  you  wasn't  quite  safe.  I  thought  I'd  come  and 
speak  to  you." 

"  You're  out  o'  sorts,"  he  answered.  "  You'll  have  to 
be  looked  after." 

"It's  nothing  but  my  foolish  way,"  she  replied. 
"You're  very  good  to  me — an'  me  so  full  of  fancies. 
Would  you — would  you  mind  me  a-kneeliri'  down  an' 
sayin'  a  prayer  here  to  myself  as  I  used  to  when  you 
was  a  boy,  Jem  ?  I  think  it  'd  do  me  good.  Would  you 
mind  it  ? " 

"  No,"  he  answered  hoarsely.     "  Kneel  down." 

And  she  knelt  and  grasped  for  his  hand  and  held  it, 
and  he  heard  her  whispering  in  the  dark  as  he  had  been 
wont  to  hear  her  nearly  thirty  years  before. 

And  when  it  was  over,  she  got  up  and  kissed  him  on  the 
forehead. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear ! "  she  said.  "  God  bless 
you ! "  and  went  away. 


CHAPTEK  XXXIX, 


AFTER  the  departure  of  Hawortli  and  Murdoch,  Mr. 
Ffrench  waited  for  some  time  for  his  daughter's  appear 
ance.  He  picked  up  a  pamphlet  and  turned  over  its 
leaves  uneasily,  trying  to  read  here  and  there,  and  making 
no  great  success  of  the  effort.  He  was  in  a  disturbed  and 
nervous  mood,  the  evening  had  been  a  trial  to  him,  more 
especially  the  latter  part  of  it  during  whicli  Ilaworth  sat 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table  in  his  usual  awkwardly  free 
and  easy  posture,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  feet  thrust 
out  before  him.  His  silence  and  the  expression  he  wore 
had  not  been  of  a  kind  to  relieve  his  companion  of  any 
tithe  of  the  burden  which  had  gradually  accumulated 
upon  his  not  too  muscular  shoulders.  At  the  outset 
Ffrench  had  been  simply  bewildered,  then  somewhat 
anxious  and  annoyed,  but  to-day  he  had  been  stunned. 
Haworth's  departure  was  an  immense  relief  to  him.  It 
was  often  a  relief  to  him  in  these  days.  Then  he  heard 
Murdoch  descend  the  stairs  and  leave  the  house,  and  he 
waited  with  mingled  dread  and  anxiousness  for  Rachel's 
coming.  But  she  did  not  make  her  appearance.  He 
heard  her  walk  across  the  room  after  Murdoch  left  her, 
and  then  she  did  not  seem  to  move  again. 

After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour  he  laid  his  pamphlet 
aside  and  rose  himself.  He  coughed  two  or  three  times 


268  "HAWOSTHW 

and  paced  the  floor  a  little — gradually  he  edged  toward 
the  folding  doors  leading  into  the  front  room  and  passed 
through  them. 

Rachel  stood  at  one  of  the  windows,  which  was  thrown 
open.  She  was  leaning  against  its  side  and  looking  out 
into  the  night.  When  she  turned  toward  him  something 
in  her  manner  caused  in  Ffrench  an  increase  of  nervous 
ness  amounting  to  irritation. 

"You  wish  to  say  something  to  me,"  she  remarked. 
"  What  is  it  1 " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  I  wish  to  say  something  to 
you." 

He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  say  it  for  a  moment 
or  so.  He  found  himself  returning  her  undisturbed  glance 
with  an  excited  and  bewildered  one. 

"I — the  fact  is"— he  broke  forth,  desperately,  "I — I 
do  not  understand  you." 

"  That  is  not  at  all  singular,"  she  replied.  "  You  have 
often  said  so  before." 

He  began  to  lose  his  temper  and  to  walk  about  the 
room. 

"  You  have  often  chosen  to  seem  incomprehensible,"  he 
said,  "  but  this  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing  you  have 
done  yet.  You — you  must  know  that  it  looks  very  bad — 
that  people  are  discussing  you  openly — you  of  all  women !  " 

Suddenly  he  wheeled  about  and  stopped,  staring  at  her 
with  more  uncertainty  and  bewilderment  than  ever. 

"  I  ought  to  know  you  better,"  he  said,  "  I  do  know  you 
better  than  to  think  you  capable  of  any  weakness  of — of 
that  kind.  You  are  not  capable  of  it.  You  are  too  proud 
and  too  fond  of  yourself,  and  yet " 

"  And  yet  what  ? "  she  demanded,  in  a  peculiar,  low 
voice. 


"  IT  IS  DONE   WITH."  269 

He  faltered  visibly. 

"  And  yet  you  are  permitting  yourself  to — to  be  talked 
over  and — misunderstood." 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  asked,  in  the  same  voice,  "  that  I 
care  for  being  i  talked  over  ? ' : 

"  You  would  care  if  you  knew  what  is  said,"  he  re 
sponded.  "  You  do  not  know." 

"  I  can  guess,"  she  replied,  "easily." 

But  she  was  deadly  pale  and  he  saw  it,  and  her  humilia 
tion  was  that  she  knew  he  saw  it. 

"  What  yoii  do,"  he  continued,  "  is  of  more  consequence 
than  what  most  women  do.  You  are  not  popular.  You 
have  held  yourself  very  high  and  have  set  people  at  de 
fiance.  If  you  should  be  guilty  of  a  romantic  folly,  it 
would  go  harder  with  you  than  with  others." 

"  I  know  that,"  she  answered  him,  "  far  better  than  you 
do." 

She  held  herself  quite  erect  and  kept  her  eyes  steadily 
upon  him. 

"  What  is  the  romantic  folly  ? "  she  put  it  to  him. 

He  could  not  have  put  it  into  words  just  then  if  his 
life  had  depended  upon  his  power  to  do  it. 

"  You  will  not  commit  it."  he  said.  "  It  is  not  in  you 
to  do  it,  but  you  have  put  yourself  in  a  false  position, 
and  it  is  very  unpleasant  for  both  of  us." 

She  stopped  him. 

"  You  are  very  much  afraid  of  speaking  plainly,"  she 
said.  "Be  more  definite." 

He  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  in  his  confusion  and 
uneasiness.  There  was  no  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

"  You  have  adopted  such  a  manner  with  the  world  gen 
erally,"  he  floundered,  "  that  a  concession  from  you  means 
a  great  deal.  You — you  have  been  making  extraordinaiy 


270  "HAWORTH'S." 

concessions.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  this  young  fellow  is 
madly  enamored  of  you.  He  does  not  know  how  to  con 
ceal  it,  and  he  does  not  try.  You  have  not  seemed  to  de 
mand  that  he  should.  You  have  let  him  follow  you,  and 
come  and  go  as  his  passion  and  simplicity  prompted  him. 
One  might  say  you  had  encouraged  him — though  encour 
aged  seems  hardly  the  word  to  use." 

"  No,"  she  interrupted,  "  it  is  not  the  word  to  use." 

"  He  has  made  himself  conspicuous  and  you  too,  and 
you  have  never  protested  by  word  or  deed.  When  he 
was  in  danger  you  actually  risked  your  life  for  him." 

"  Great  heaven  !  "  she  ejaculated. 

The  truth  of  what  he  said  came  upon  her  like  a  flash. 
Until  this  moment  she  had  only  seen  the  night  from  one 
stand-point,  and  to  see  it  from  this  one  was  a  deadly  hlow 
to  her.  She  lost  her  balance. 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  she  cried  breathlessly.  "  I  was 
mad  with  excitement.  If  I  had  stopped  to  think " 

"  You  usually  do  stop  to  think,"  he  put  in.  "  That 
was  why  I  was  amazed.  You  did  a  thing  without  cal 
culating  its  significance.  You  never  did  so  before  in 
your  life.  You  know  that  it  is  true.  You  pride  yourself 
upon  it." 

He  could  have  said  nothing  so  bitter  and  terrible.  For 
the  moment  they  had  changed  places.  It  was  he  who 
had  presented  a  weakness  to  her.  She  did  pride  herself 
upon  her  cool  power  of  calculation. 

"  Go  on !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  He  has  been  here  half  the  day,"  he  proceeded,  grow 
ing  bolder.  "  You  were  out  in  the  garden  together  all 
the  afternoon — he  has  only  just  left  you.  When  you  con 
trast  his  position  with  yours  is  not  that  an  extraordinary 
thing  ?  What  should  you  say  if  another  woman  had  gone 


"/r  IS  DONE    WITH."  271 

so  far  ?  Two  years  ago,  he  was  Ha  worth's  engineer.  He 
is  a  wonderful  fellow  and  a  genius,  and  the  world  will 
hear  of  him  yet.  1  should  never  think  of  anything  but 
that  if  I  were  the  only  individual  concerned,  but  you — 
you  treated  him  badly  enough  at  first." 

She  turned  paler  and  paler. 

"  You  think  that  I— that  I " 

She  had  meant  to  daunt  him  with  the  most  daring 
speech  she  could  make,  but  it  would  not  complete  itself. 
She  faltered  and  broke  down. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  he  answered  desperately. 
•'  It  seems  impossible.  Good  heavens  !  it  is  impossible  ! 
— you — it  is  not  in  your  nature." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not." 

Even  in  that  brief  space  she  had  recovered  herself 
wholly.  She  met  his  glance  just  as  she  had  met  it  be 
fore,  even  with  more  perfect  sangfroid. 

*fc  I  will  tell  you  what  to  think,"  she  went  on.  "  I  have 
been  very  dull  here.  I  wished  from  the  first  that  I  had 
never  come.  I  hate  the  people,  and  I  despise  them  more 
than  I  hate  them.  I  must  be  amused  and  interested,  and 
they  are  less  than  nothing.  The  person  you  speak  of  was 
different.  I  suppose  what  you  say  of  him  is  true  and  he 
is  a  genius.  I  care  nothing  for  that  in  itself,  but  he  has 
managed  to  interest  me.  At  first  I  thought  him  only 
absurd ;  he  was  of  a  low  class  and  a  common  workman, 
and  he  was  so  simple  and  ignorant  of  the  world  that  he 
did  not  feel  his  position  or  did  not  care.  That  amused 
me  and  I  led  him  on  to  revealing  himself.  Then  I  found 
out  that  there  was  a  difference  between  him  and  the  rest 
of  his  class,  and  I  began  to  study  him.  I  have  no  senti- 
mental  notions  about  his  honor  and  good  qualities.  Those 
things  do  not  affect  me,  but  I  have  been  interested  and 


272  «  MA  WORTH'S." 

the  time  has  passed  more  easily.  Now  the  matter  will 
end  just  as  it  began, — not  because  I  am  tired  of  him  or 
because  I  care  for  what  people  say,  but  because  I  think  it 
is  time, — and  I  choose  that  it  should.  It  is  done  with 
from  to-night." 

"  Good  heaven ! "  he  cried.  "  You  are  not  going  to  drop 
the  poor  fellow  like  that  ?  " 

"  You  may  call  it  what  you  please,"  she  returned.  "  I 
have  gone  as  far  as  I  choose  to  go,  and  it  is  done  with  from 
to-night." 

Mr.  Ffrench's  excitement  became  something  painful  to 
see.  Between  his  embarrassment  as  a  weak  nature  before 
a  strong  one, — an  embarrassment  which  was  founded  upon 
secret  fear  of  unpleasant  results, — between  this  and  the 
natural  compunctions  arising  from  tendencies  toward  a 
certain  refined  and  amiable  sense  of  fairness,  he  well-nigh 
lost  all  control  over  himself  and  became  courageous.  He 
grew  heated  and  flushed  and  burst  forth  into  protest. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  I  must  say  it's  a — a  deuced  un* 
gentlemanly  business !  " 

Her  lack  of  response  absolutely  inspired  him. 

"  It's  a  deuced  ill-bred  business,"  he  added,  "  from  first 
to  last." 

She  did  not  reply  even  to  that,  so  he  went  on,  growing 
warmer  and  warmer. 

"  You  have  taunted  me  with  being  afraid  of  you,"  he 
said,  "  though  you  have  never  put  it  into  so  many  words. 
Perhaps  I  have  been  afraid  of  you.  You  can  make  your 
self  confoundedly  unpleasant  at  times, — and  I  may  have 
shrunk  from  saying  what  would  rouse  you, — but  I  must 
speak  my  mind  about  this,  and  say  it  is  a  deucedly  cruel 
and  unfair  thing,  and  is  unworthy  of  you.  A  less  well- 
bred  woman  might  have  done  it." 


"IT  18  DONE   WITH."  273 

A  little  color  rose  to  her  cheek  and  remained  there,  but 
she  did  not  answer  still. 

"He  is  an  innocent  fellow,"  he  proceeded,  "an  un 
worldly  fellow ;  he  has  lived  in  his  books  and  his  work, 
and  he  knows  nothing  of  women.  His  passion  for  you  is 
a  pure,  romantic  one  ;  he  would  lay  his  world  at  your  feet. 
Call  it  folly,  if  you  will, — it  is  folly, — but  allow  me  to  tell 
you  it  is  worthy  of  a  better  object." 

He  was  so  astonished  at  his  own  daring  that  he  stopped 
to  see  what  effect  it  had  produced. 

She  replied  by  asking  a  simple  but  utterly  confounding 
question. 

<k  What,"  she  said,  "  would  you  wish  me  to  do  \  " 

"  What  would  I  wish  you  to  do  ? "  he  stammered. 
"  What  ?  I— I  hardly  know." 

And  after  regarding  her  helplessly  a  little  longer,  he 
turned  about  and  left  the  room. 

12* 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"LOOK  OUT!" 

THE  next  morning  Ffrench  rather  surprised  Murdoch 
by  walking  into  his  cell  with  the  evident  intention  of  pay 
ing  him  a  somewhat  prolonged  visit.  It  was  not,  however, 
the  fact  of  his  appearing  there  which  was  unusual  enough 
to  excite  wonder,  but  a  certain  degree  of  mingled  con 
straint  and  effusiveness  in  his  manner.  It  was  as  if  he 
was  troubled  with  some  mental  compunctions  which  he 
was  desirous  of  setting  at  rest.  At  times  he  talked  very 
fast  and  in  a  comparatively  light  and  jocular  vein,  and 
again  he  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  invariably  rousing 
himself  from  his  abstraction  with  a  sudden  effort.  Sev 
eral  times  Murdoch  found  that  he  was  regarding  him  with 
a  disturbed  air  of  anxiety. 

Before  going  away  he  made  an  erratic  and  indecisive 
tour  of  the  little  room,  glancing  at  drawings  and  picking 
up  first  one  thing  and  then  another. 

"  You  have  a  good  many  things  here,"  he  said,  "  of  one 
kind  and  another." 

"  Yes,"  Murdoch  answered,  absently. 

Ffrench  glanced  around  at  the  jumble  of  mechanical 
odds  and  ends,  the  plans  and  models  in  various  stages  of 
neglect  or  completion. 

"  It's  a  queer  place,"  he  commented,  "  and  it  has  an  air 


11  LOOK  OUT!"  275 

of  significance.  It's  crammed  with  ideas — of  one  kind 
and  another." 

"  Yes,"  Murdoch  answered,  as  before. 

Ffrench  approached  him  and  laid  his  hand  weakly  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  You  are  a  fellow  of  ideas,"  he  said,  "  and  you  have  a 
good  deal  before  yon.  Whatever  disappointments  you 
might  meet  with,  you  would  always  have  a  great  deal  be 
fore  you.  You  have  ideas.  I,"  with  apparent  inconse 
quence,  "  I  haven't,  you  know." 

Murdoch  looked  somewhat  puzzled,  but  he  did  not  con 
tradict  him,  so  he  repeated  his  statement. 

"  I  haven't,  you  know.     I  wish  I  had." 

Then  he  dropped  his  hand  and  looked  indefinite  again. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  always  remember  that  I  am  your 
friend,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  I  could  have  been  of  more  ser 
vice  to  you.  You  are  a  fine  fellow,  Murdoch.  I  have 
admired  you — I  have  liked  you.  Don't  forget  it." 

And  he  went  away  carrying  the  burden  of  his  inde 
cision  and  embarrassment  and  good  intention  with  much 
amiable  awkwardness. 

That  day  Murdoch  did  not  see  Rachel  Ffrench.  Cir 
cumstances  occurred  which  kept  him  at  work  until  a  late 
hour.  The  next  day  it  was  the  same  story,  and  the  next 
also.  A  series  of  incidents  seemed  to  combine  against 
him,  and  the  end  of  each  day  found  him  worn  out  and 
fretted.  But  on  the  fourth  he  was  free  again,  and  early 
in  the  evening  found  himself  within  sight  of  the  iron 
gates.  Every  pulse  in  his  body  throbbed  as  he  passed 
through  them.  He  was  full  of  intense  expectation.  He 
could  scarcely  bear  to  think  of  what  was  before  him.  His 
desperate  happiness  was  a  kind  of  pain.  One  of  his  chief 
longings  was  that  he  might  find  her  wearing  the  pale  blue 


276  "HAWORTH'S" 

dress  again  and  that  when  he  entered  she  might  be  stand 
ing  in  the  centre  of  the  room  as  he  had  left  her.  Then  it 
would  seem  as  if  there  had  been  no  nights  and  days  be 
tween  the  last  terribly  happy  moment  and  this.  The 
thought  which  flashed  across  his  mind  that  there  might 
possibly  be  some  one  else  in  the  room  was  a  shock  to 
him. 

"  If  she  is  not  alone,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  it  will  be  un 
bearable." 

As  he  passed  up  the  walk,  he  came  upon  a  tall  white 
lily  blooming  on  one  of  the  border  beds.  He  was  in  a 
sufficiently  mystical  and  emotional  mood  to  be  stopped  by 
it. 

"It  is  like  her,"  he  said.  And  he  gathered  it  and  took 
it  with  him  to  the  house. 

The  first  thing  upon  which  his  eye  rested  when  he 
stood  upon  the  threshold  of  the  room  was  the  pale  blue 
color,  and  she  was  standing  just  as  he  had  left  her,  it 
seemed  to  him  upon  the  very  same  spot  upon  which  they 
had  parted.  His  wish  had  been  realized  so  far  at  least. 

He  was  obliged  to  pause  a  moment  to  regain  his  self- 
control.  It  was  an  actual  truth  that  he  could  not  have 
trusted  himself  so  far  as  to  go  in  at  once. 

It  was  best  that  he  did  not.  The  next  instant  she 
turned  and  spoke  to  a  third  person  at  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  and  even  as  she  did  so  caught  sight  of  him  and 
stopped. 

"Here  is  Mr.  Murdoch,"  she  said,  and  paused,  waiting 
for  him  to  come  forward.  She  did  not  advance  to  meet 
him,  did  not  stir  until  he  was  scarcely  more  than  a  pace 
from  her.  She  simply  waited,  watching  him  as  he  moved 
toward  her,  as  if  she  were  a  little  curious  to  see  what  he 


" LOOK  OUT!"  277 

would  do.  Then  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  took  it 
with  a  feeling  that  something  unnatural  had  happened, 
or  that  he  was  suddenly  awakening  from  a  delusion. 

He  did  not  even  speak.  It  was  she  who  spoke,  turning 
toward  the  person  whom  she  had  addressed  before  he  en 
tered. 

"  You  have  heard  us  speak  of  Mr.  Murdoch,"  she  said ; 
and  then  to  himself,  "  This  is  M.  Saint  Meran." 

M.  Saint  Meran  rose  and  bowed  profoundly.  He  pre 
sented,  as  his  best  points,  long,  graceful  limbs  and  a  pair 
of  clear  gray  eyes,  which  seemed  to  hold  their  opinions  in 
check.  He  regarded  Murdoch  with  an  expression  of 
suave  interest  and  made  a  well-bred  speech  of  greet 
ing- 
Murdoch  said  nothing.  He  could  think  of  nothing  to 
say.  He  was  never  very  ready  of  speech.  He  bowed 
with  an  uncertain  air,  and  almost  immediately  wandered 
off  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  holding  his  lily  in  his 
hand.  He  began  to  turn  over  the  pages  of  a  book  of  en 
gravings,  seeing  none  of  them.  After  a  little  while  a 
peculiar  perfume  close  to  him  attracted  his  attention,  and 
he  looked  downward  vacantly  and  saw  the  lily.  Then  he 
laid  it  down  and  moved  farther  away. 

Afterward — he  did  not  know  how  long  afterward — 
Ffrench  came  in.  He  seemed  in  a  very  feverish  state  of 
mind,  talking  a  great  deal  and  rather  inanely,  and  forcing 
Murdoch  to  reply  and  join  in  the  conversation. 

M.  Saint  Meran  held  himself  with  a  graceful  air  of 
security  and  self-poise,  and  made  gentle  efforts  at  scien 
tific  remark  which  should  also  have  an  interest  for  genius 
of  a  mechanical  and  inventive  turn.  But  Murdoch's  re 
plies  were  vague.  His  glance  followed  Rachel  Ffrench. 
He  devoured  her  with  his  eyes — a  violence  which  she 


278  "HAWORTH'S." 

bore  very  well.     At  last — he  had  not  been  in  the  house 
an  hour — he  left  his  chair  and  went  to  her. 

"  I  am  going  away,"  he  said  in  an  undertone.  "  Good 
night!" 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  She  was  speaking  to 
Saint  Meran. 

"  Good  night ! "  he  repeated,  in  the  same  tone,  not 
raising  it  at  all,  only  giving  it  an  intense,  concentrated 
sound. 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him. 

"  Good-night !  "  she  answered. 

And  he  went  away,  Ffrench  following  him  to  the  door 
with  erratic  and  profuse  regrets,  which  he  did  not  hear  at 
all. 

When  he  got  outside,  he  struck  out  across  the  country. 
The  strength  with  which  he  held  himself  in  check  was  a 
wonder  to  him.  It  seemed  as  if  he  was  not  thinking  at 
all — that  he  did  not  allow  himself  to  think.  He  walked 
fast,  it  might  even  be  said,  violently  ;  the  exertion  made 
his  head  throb  and  his  blood  rush  through  his  veins.  He 
walked  until  at  last  his  heart  beat  so  suffocatingly  that  he 
was  forced  to  stop.  He  threw  himself  down — almost  fell 
down  upon  the  grass  at  the  wayside  and  lay  with  shut 
eyes.  He  was  giddy  and  exhausted,  and  panted  for 
breath.  He  could  not  have  thought  then,  if  he  would  ; 
he  had  gained  so  much  at  least.  He  did  not  leave  the 
place  for  an  hour.  When  he  did  so,  it  was  to  walk  home 
by  another  route,  slowly,  almost  weakly.  This  route  led 
him  by  the  Briarley  cottage,  and,  as  he  neared  it,  he  was 
seized  with  a  fancy  for  going  in.  The  door  was  ajar  and 
a  light  burned  in  the  living-room,  and  this  drew  him  to 
ward  it. 

Upon  the  table  stood  a  basket  filled  with  purchases,  and 


SHE  TURNED  HER  FACE  TOWARD  HIM.    "  GOOD-NIGHT,"  SHE  ANSWERED. 


"LOOK  OUT/"  279 

near  the  basket  lay  a  shawl  which  Janey  wore  upon  all 
occasions  requiring  a  toilet.  She  had  just  come  in  from 
her  shopping,  and  sat  on  a  stool  in  her  usual  posture,  not 
having  yet  removed  the  large  bonnet  which  spread  its 
brim  around  her  small  face,  a  respectable  and  steady-go 
ing  aureole  enlivened  with  bunches  of  flowers  which  in 
their  better  days  had  rejoiced  Mrs.  Briarley's  heart  with 
exceeding  great  joy. 

She  looked  up  as  he  came  in,  but  she  did  not  rise. 

"  Eh !  it's  thee,  is  it  ?  "  she  remarked.  "  I  thowt  it  wur 
toime  tha  wur  comin'.  Tha'st  not  been  here  fur  nigh  a 
month." 

"  I  have  been — doing  a  great  deal." 

"  Aye,"  she  answered.     "  I  suppose  so." 

She  jerked  her  thumb  toward  Granny  Dixon's  basket 
chair,  which  stood  empty. 

"  She's  takken  down,"  she  said.  "  She  wur  takken 
down  a  week  sin',  an'  a  noice  toime  we're  ha'in'  nursin' 
her.  None  on  us  can  do  anything  wi'  her  but  mother — 
she  can  settle  her,  thank  th'  Amoighty." 

She  rested  her  sharp  little  elbows  upon  her  knees  and 
her  chin  upon  both  palms  and  surveyed  him  with  in 
terest. 

"  Has  tha  seed  him  ? "  she  demanded  suddenly. 

"Who?"  he  asked. 

"  Him,"  with  a  nod  of  her  head.  "  Th'  furriner  as  is 
stay  in'  at  Mester  Ffrench's.  Yo'  mun  ha'  seen  him. 
He's  been  theer  three  days." 

"  I  saw  him  this  evening." 

"  I  thowt  tha  mun  ha'  seed  him.  He  coom  o'  Monday. 
He  coom  fro'  France.  I  should  na,"  with  a  tone  of 
serious  speculation, — "  I  should  na  ha'  thowt  she'd  ha' 
had  a  Frenchman." 


280  "HAWORT&S." 

She  moved  her  feet  and  settled  herself  more  conve 
niently  without  moving  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

"  I  dunnot  think  much  o'  Frenchmen  mysen,"  she  pro 
ceeded.  "  An'  neyther  does  mother,  but  they  say  as  this 
is  a  rich  un  an'  a  grand  un.  She's  lived  i'  France  a  good 
bit,  an'  happen  she  does  na'  moind  their  ways.  She's 
knowed  him  afore." 

"  When  ? "  he  asked. 

"  When  she  wur  theer.     She  lived  theer,  yo'  know." 

Yes,  he  remembered,  she  had  lived  there.  He  said 
nothing  more,  only  sat  watching  the  little  stunted  figure 
and  sharp  small  face  with  a  sense  of  mild  fascination, 
wondering  dully  how  much  she  knew  and  where  she  had 
learned  it  all,  and  what  she  would  say  next.  But  she 
gave  him  no  further  information — chiefly  because  she  had 
no  more  on  hand,  there  being  a  limit  even  to  her  sagacity. 
She  became  suddenly  interested  in  himself. 

"  Yo're  as  pale  as  if  yo'd  had  th'  whoopin'-cough,"  she 
remarked.  "  What's  wrong  wi'  yo'  ? " 

"  I  am  tired,"  he  answered.     "  Worn  out." 

That  was  true  enough,  but  it  did  not  satisfy  her.  Her 
matter  of  fact  and  matronly  mind  arrived  at  a  direct  so 
lution  of  the  question. 

"  Did  yo'  ivver  think,"  she  put  it  to  him,  "  as  she'd  ha' 

yo'?" 

He  had  no  answer  to  give  her.  He  began  to  turn 
deathly  white  about  the  lips.  She  surveyed  him  with  in 
creased  interest  and  proceeded  : 

"  Mother  an'  me's  talked  it  over,"  she  said.  "  We  tak' 
th'  '  Ha'penny  Reader,'  an'  theer  wur  a  tale  in  it  as  towd 
o'  one  o'  th'  nobility  as  wed  a  workin'  chap — an'  mother 
she  said  as  happen  she  wur  loike  her  an'  ud  do  it,  but  I 
said  she  would  na.  Th'  chap  i'  th'  tale  turnt  out  to  be  a 


"LOOK  OUT!"  281 

earl,  as  nd  been  kidnapped  by  th'  gypsies,  but  yo'  nivver 
wur  kidnapt,  an'  she's  noan  o'  th'  soft  koind.  Th'  Lady 
Ger&ldine  wur  a  difrient  mak'.  Theer  wur  na  mich  i'  her 
to  my  moind.  She  wur  alias  makkin'  out  as  brass  wur  nowt, 
an'  talkin'  about  '  humble  virchew  '  as  if  theer  wur  nowt 
loike  it.  Yo'  would  na  ketch  her  talkin'  i'  that  road. 
Mother  she'd  sit  an'  cry  until  th'  babby's  bishop  wur  wet 
through,  but  I  nivver  seed  nowt  to  cry  about  my  sen. 
She  getten  th'  chap  i'  th'  eend,  an'  he  turnt  out  to  be  a 
earl  after  aw.  But  I  towd  mother  as  marry  in'  a  workin' 
man  wur  na  i'  her  loine." 

Murdoch  burst  into  a  harsh  laugh  and  got  up. 

"  I've  been  pretty  well  talked  over,  it  seems,"  he  said. 
"  I  didn't  know  that  before." 

"  Aye,"  replied  Janey,  coolly.  "  We've  talked  yo'  ower 
a  good  bit.  Are  yo'  goin'  ? " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  going." 

lie  went  out  with  an  uncertain  movement,  leaving  the 
door  open  behind  him.  As  he  descended  the  steps,  the 
light  from  the  room,  slanting  out  into  the  darkness,  struck 
athwart  a  face,  the  body  pertaining  to  which  seemed  to 
be  leaning  against  the  palings,  grasping  them  with  both 
hands.  It  was  the  face  of  Mr.  Briarley,  who  regarded 
him  with  a  mingled  expression  of  anxiety  and  desire  to 
propitiate. 

"  Is  it  yo'  ?  "  he  whispered,  as  Murdoch  neared  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  was  answered,  somewhat  shortly. 

Mr.  Briarley  put  out  a  hand  and  plucked  him  by  the 
sleeve. 

"  I've  been  waitin'  fur  yo',"  he  said  in  a  sonorous  whis 
per  which  only  failed  to  penetrate  the  innermost  recesses 
of  the  dwelling  through  some  miracle. 

Murdoch  turned  out  of  the  gate. 


282  "HAWOKTH'S." 

"Why?  "he  asked. 

Mr.  Briarley  glanced  toward  the  house  uneasily,  and 
also  up  and  down  the  road. 

"  Le's  get  out  o'  th'  way  a  bit,"  he  remarked. 

Murdoch  walked  on,  and  he  shuffled  a  few  paces  behind 
him.  When  they  got  well  into  the  shadow  of  the  hedge, 
he  stopped.  Suddenly  he  dropped  upon  his  knees  and 
crawling  through  a  very  small  gap  into  the  field  behind, 
remained  there  for  a  few  seconds ;  then  he  re-appeared 
panting. 

"  Theer's  no  one  theer,"  he  said.  "  I  would  na  ha' 
risked  theer  bein'  one  on  'em  lyin'  under  th'  hedge." 

"  One  of  whom  ?  "  Murdoch  inquired. 

"  I  did  na  say  who,"  he  answered. 

When  he  stood  on  his  feet  again,  he  took  his  companion 
by  the  button. 

"  Theer's  a  friend  o'  moine,"  he  said,  "  as  ha'  sent  a 
messidge  to  yo'.  This  here's  it — *  Look  out  !  ' 

"  What  does  it  mean  ? "  Murdoch  asked.  "  Speak  more 
plainly." 

Mr.  Briarley  became  evidently  disturbed. 

"Nay,"  he  said,  "that  theer's  plain  enow  fur  me.  It 
ud  do  my  business  i'  quick  toime  if  I 

He  stopped  and  glanced  about  him  again,  and  then, 
without  warning,  threw  himself,  so  to  speak,  on  Murdoch's 
shoulder  and  began  to  pour  a  flood  of  whispers  into  his 
ear. 

"  Theer  wur  a  chap  as  were  a  foo',"  he  said,  "  an'  he 
was  drawed  into  bein'  a  bigger  foo'  than  common.  It 
wur  him  as  getten  yo'  i'  trouble  wi'  th'  stroikers.  He  did 
na  mean  no  ill,  an' — an'  he  ses,  '  I'll  tell  him  to  look  out. 
I'll  run  th'  risk.'  He  knowed  what  wur  goiu'  on,  an'  he 
see,  <  Til  tell  him  to  look  out.' " 


"LOOK  OUT!" 

"  Who  was  he  ? "  Murdoch  interposed. 

Mr.  Briarley  fell  back  a  pace,  perspiring  profusely, 
and  dabbing  at  his  forehead  with  his  cap. 

"  He — he  wur  a  friend  o'  moine,"  he  stammered, — "  a 
friend  o'  moine  as  has  getten  a  way  o'  gettin'  hissen  i' 
trouble,  an'  he  ses,  <  I'll  tell  him  to  look  out.'  " 

"  Tell  him  from  me,"  said  Murdoch,  "  that  I  am  not 
afraid  of  anything  that  may  happen." 

It  was  a  rash  speech,  but  was  not  so  defiant  as  it  sounded. 
His  only  feeling  was  one  of  cold  carelessness.  He  wanted 
to  get  free  and  go  away  and  end  his  night  in  his  silent 
room  at  home.  But  Mr.  Briarley  kept  up  with  him,  edg 
ing  toward  him  apologetically  as  he  walked. 

"  Yo're  set  agen  th'  chap  fur  bein'  a  foo',"  he  persisted, 
breathlessly,  "an'  I  dunnot  blame  yo'.  He's  set  agen 
hissen.  He's  a  misforchnit  chap  as  is  all  us  i'  trouble. 
It's  set  heavy  on  him,  an'  ses  he,  '  I'll  tell  him  to  look 
out.'" 

At  a  turn  into  a  by-lane  he  stopped. 

"  I'll  go  this  road,"  he  said,  "  an'  I'll  tell  him  as  I've 
done  it." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

"IT   HAS    ALL   BEEN    A   LIE." 

IN  a  week's  time  Saint  Me  ran  had  become  a  distinct 
element  in  the  social  atmosphere  of  Broxton  and  vicinity. 
He  fell  into  his  place  at  Rachel  Ffrench's  side  with  the 
naturalness  of  a  man  who  felt  he  had  some  claim  upon 
his  position.  He  was  her  father's  guest ;  they  had  seen  a 
great  deal  of  each  other  abroad.  Any  woman  might 
have  felt  his  well-bred  homage  a  delicate  compliment. 
He  was  received  as  an  agreeable  addition  to  society  ;  he 
attended  her  upon  all  occasions.  From  the  window  of 
his  work-room  Murdoch  saw  him  drive  by  with  her  in  her 
carriage,  saw  him  drop  into  the  bank  for  a  friendly  chat 
with  Ffrench,  who  regarded  him  with  a  mixture  of  ner 
vousness  and  admiration. 

Ha  worth,  having  gone  away  again,  had  not  heard  of 
him.  Of  late  the  Works  had  seen  little  of  its  master. 
He  made  journeys  hither  and  hither,  and  on  his  return 
from  such  journeys  invariably  kept  the  place  in  hot 
water.  He  drove  the  work  on  and  tyrannized  over  the 
hands  from  foremen  to  puddlers.  At  such  times  there 
was  mysterious  and  covert  rebellion  and  some  sharp 
guessing  as  to  what  was  going  on,  but  it  generally  ended 
in  this.  Upon  the  whole  the  men  were  used  to  being 
bullied,  and  some  of  them  worked  the  better  for  it. 

Murdoch  went  about  his  work  as  usual,  though  there 


"/71  HAS  ALL  BEEN  A  LIE."  285 

was  not  a  decent  man  on  the  place  who  did  not  gradually 
awaken  to  the  fact  that  some  singular  change  was  at  work 
upon  him.  He  concentrated  all  his  mental  powers  upon 
what  he  had  to  do  during  work  hours,  and  so  held  himself 
in  check,  but  he  spent  all  his  leisure  in  a  kind  of  apathy, 
sitting  in  his  cell  at  his  work-table  in  his  old  posture,  his 
forehead  supported  by  his  hands,  his  fingers  locked  in  his 
tumbled  hair.  Sometimes  he  was  seized  with  fits  of  ner 
vous  trembling  which  left  him  weak.  When  he  left 
home  in  the  morning  he  did  not  return  until  night  and  he 
ate  no  midday  meal. 

As  yet  he  was  only  drifting  here  and  there ;  he  had 
arrived  at  no  conclusions  ;  he  did  not  believe  in  his  own 
reasoning;  the  first  blow  had  simply  stunned  him.  A 
man  who  had  been  less  reserved  and  who  had  begun  upon 
a  fair  foundation  of  common  knowledge  would  have 
understood ;  he  understood  nothing  but  his  passion,  his 
past  rapture,  and  that  a  mysterious  shock  had  fallen  upon 
him. 

He  lived  in  this  way  for  more  than  a  week,  and  then 
he  roused  himself  to  make  a  struggle.  One  bright,  sunny 
day,  after  sitting  dumbly  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  he  stag 
gered  to  his  feet  and  took  up  his  hat. 

"  Pll — try — again,"  he  said,  mechanically.  "  I'll  try 
again.  I  don't  know  what  it  means.  It  may  have  been 
my  fault.  I  don't  think  it  was — but  it  may  have  been. 
Perhaps  I  expected  too  much."  And  he  went  out. 

After  he  had  been  absent  some  minutes,  Ffrench  came 
in  from  the  bank.  He  had  been  having  a  hard  morning 
of  it.  The  few  apparently  unimportant  indiscretions  in 
the  way  of  private  speculation  of  which  he  had  been 
guilty  were  beginning  to  present  themselves  in  divers 
unpleasant  forms,  and  to  assume  an  air  of  importance  he 


286  "HAWORT&3" 

had  not  believed  possible.  His  best  ventures  had  failed 
him,  and  things  which  he  was  extremely  anxious  to  keep 
from  Haworth's  ears  were  assuming  a  shape  which  would 
render  it  difficult  to  manage  them  privately.  He  was 
badgered  and  baited  on  all  sides,  and  naturally  began  to 
see  his  own  folly.  His  greatest  fear  was  not  so  much 
that  he  should  lose  the  money  he  had  risked  as  that  Ha- 
worth  should  discover  his  luckless  weakness  and  confront 
and  crush  him  with  it.  As  he  stood  in  fear  of  his  daugh 
ter,  so  he  stood  in  fear  of  Haworth  ;  but  his  dread  of  Ha- 
worth  was,  perhaps,  the  stronger  feeling  of  the  two.  His 
very  refinement  added  to  it.  Having  gained  the  object 
of  his  ambition,  he  had  found  it  not  exactly  what  he  had 
pictured  it.  Haworth  had  not  spared  him;  the  very 
hands  had  derided  his  enthusiastic  and  strenuous  efforts ; 
he  had  secretly  felt  that  his  position  was  ridiculous,  and 
provocative  of  satire  among  the  unscientific  herd.  When 
he  had  done  anything  which  should  have  brought  him 
success  and  helped  him  to  assert  himself,  it  had  somehow 
always  failed,  and  now . 

He  sat  down  in  the  managerial  chair  before  Haworth's 
great  table,  strewn  with  papers  and  bills.  He  had  shut 
the  door  behind  him  and  was  glad  to  be  alone. 

"  I  am  extremely  unfortunate,"  he  faltered  aloud.  "  I 
don't  know  how  to  account  for  it."  And  he  glanced 
about  him  helplessly.  Before  the  words  had  fairly  left 
his  lips  his  privacy  was  broken  in  upon.  The  door  was 
flung  open  and  Murdoch  came  in.  He  had  evidently 
walked  fast,  for  he  was  breathing  heavily,  and  he  had 
plainly  expected  to  find  the  room  empty.  He  looked  at 
Ffrench,  sat  down  and  wiped  his  lips. 

"  I  want  you,"  he  began,  witli  labored  articulation,  "  I 
want  you — to  tell  me — what — I  have  done." 


"IT  HAS  ALL  BEEN  A  LIE."  287 

Ff  rench  could  only  stare  at  him. 

"  I  went  to  the  house,"  he  said,  "  and  asked  for  her." 
(He  did  not  say  for  whom,  nor  was  it  necessary  that  he 
should.  Ff  rench  understood  him  perfectly.)  "  I  swear  I 
saw  her  standing  at  the  window  as  I  went  up  the  path. 
She  had  a  purple  dress  on — and  a  white  flower  in  her  hair 
— and  Saint  Meran  was  at  her  side.  Before,  the  man  at 
the  door  never  waited  for  me  to  speak  ;  this  time  he  stood 
and  looked  at  me.  I  said,  1 1  want  to  see  Miss  Ffrench ; ' 
he  answered, i  She  is  not  at  home.'  '  Not  at  home,'  " — 
breaking  into  a  rough  laugh, — "  *  not  at  home '  to  me  !  " 

He  clinched  his  fist  and  dashed  it  against  the  chair. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  he  cried  out.  "  What  does  it 
mean  f  " 

Ffrench  quaked. 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  and  his  own  face  gave 
him  the  lie. 

Murdoch  caught  his  words  up  and  flung  them  back  at 
him. 

"  You  don't  know  ! "  he  cried.  "Then  I  will  tell  you. 
It  means  that  she  has  been  playing  me  false  from  first  to 
last." 

Ffrench  felt  his  position  becoming  weaker  and  weaker. 
Here  was  a  state  of  affairs  he  had  never  seen  before ; 
here  was  a  madness  which  concealed  nothing,  which  defied 
all,  which  flung  all  social  presuppositions  to  the  winds. 
He  ought  to  have  been  able  to  palter  and  equivocate,  to 
prof  ess  a  well-bred  surprise  and  some  delicate  indignation, 
to  be  dignified  and  subtle  ;  but  he  was  not.  He  could 
only  sit  and  wonder  what  would  come  next,  and  feel  un 
comfortable  and  alarmed.  The  thing  which  came  next  he 
had  not  expected  any  more  than  he  had  expected  the  rest 
of  the  outbreak. 


"HAWORT&S." 

Suddenly  a  sullen  calmness  settled  upon  the  young  fel 
low — a  calm  which  spoke  of  some  fierce  determination. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  have  broken  out  like  this 
before  you,"  he  said.  "  Seeing  you  here  when  I  expected 
to  fight  it  out  alone,  surprised  me  into  it.  But  there  is 
one  thing  I  am  going  to  do.  I'll  hear  the  truth  from  her 
own  lips.  When  you  go  home  I  will  go  with  you.  They 
wont  turn  me  back  then,  and  I'll  see  her  face  to  face." 

«  I »  began  Ff rench,  and  then  added,  completely 

overwhelmed,  "  Very — perhaps  it  would  be — be  best." 

"  Best ! "  echoed  Murdoch,  with  another  laugh.  "  No,  it 
won't  be  best ;  it  will  be  worst ;  but  I'll  do  it  for  all  that." 

And  he  dropped  his  head  upon  the  arms  he  had  folded 
on  the  chair's  back,  and  so  sat  in  a  forlorn,  comfortless 
posture,  not  speaking,  not  stirring,  as  if  he  did  not  know 
that  there  was  any  presence  in  the  room  but  his  own. 

And  he  kept  his  word.  As  Ff  rench  was  going  out  into 
the  street  at  dusk  he  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder,  and 
turning,  found  Murdoch  close  behind  him. 

"  I'm  ready,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are." 

When  they  reached  the  house,  the  man  who  opened  the 
door  stared  at  them  blankly,  which  so  irritated  Ff  rench 
that  he  found  an  excuse  for  administering  a  sharp  rebuke 
to  him  about  some  trifle. 

"  They  are  always  making  some  stupid  blunder,"  he  said 
to  Murdoch  as  they  passed  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room. 

But  Murdoch  did  not  hear. 

It  was  one  of  the  occasions  on  which  Rachel  Ffrench 
reached  her  highest  point  of  beauty.  Her  black  velvet 
dress  was  almost  severe  in  its  simplicity,  and  her  one  orna 
ment  was  the  jewelled  star  in  her  high  coiffure.  M.  St. 
Meran  held  his  place  at  her  side.  He  received  Murdoch 
with  einpressement  and  exhibited  much  tact  and  good  feel- 


"IT  HAS  ALL  BEEN  A  LIE." 

ing.     But  Murdoch  would  have  none  of  him.     He  had 
neither  tact  nor  experience. 

His  time  did  not  come  until  the  evening  was  nearly 
over,  and  it  would  never  have  come  if  he  had  not  at  last 
forced  her  to  confront  him  by  making  his  way  to  her 
side  with  a  daring  which  was  so  novel  in  him  that  it 
would  have  mastered  another  woman. 

Near  her  he  trembled  a  little,  but  he  said  what  he  had 
come  to  say. 

"  To-day,"  he  said,  "  when  I  called — your  servant  told 
me  you  were  not  at  home." 

She  paused  a  moment  before  answering,  but  when  she 
did  answer  he  trembled  no  more. 

"  That  was  unfortunate,"  she  said. 

"  It  was  not  true — I  saw  you  at  the  window." 

She  looked  him  quietly  in  the  face,  answering  him  in 
two  words. 

"  Did  you  ? " 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away.  His  brain 
whirled ;  he  did  not  know  how  he  got  out  of  the  room. 
He  was  scarcely  conscious  of  existence  until  he  found 
himself  out-of-doors.  He  got  beyond  the  gate  and  into 
the  road,  and  to  the  end  of  the  road,  but  there  he  stopped 
and  turned  back.  He  went  back  until  he  found  he  was 
opposite  the  house  again,  looking  up  at  the  lighted  win 
dow,  he  did  not  know  why.  A  sharp  rain  was  falling, 
but  he  did  not  feel  it.  He  stood  staring  at  the  window, 
mechanically  plucking  at  the  leaves  on  the  hedge  near 
him.  He  scarcely  knew  whether  it  was  a  curse  or  a  sob 
which  fell  from  his  lips  and  awakened  him  at  last. 

"Am  I  going   mad?"   he   said.     "  Do   men  go   mad 
through  such  things  ?     God  forbid !     It  has  all  been  a  lie 
—a  lie— a  lie ! !  " 
13 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

"  ANOTHER   MAN  !  " 

IN  two  days  Haworth  returned.  He  came  from  the 
station  one  morning,  not  having  been  home.  He  did  not 
go  to  the  Works,  but  to  the  bank  and  straight  into 
Ffrench's  private  room. 

The  look  this  unhappy  gentleman  gave  him  when  he 
saw  him  was  a  queer  mixture  of  anxiety,  furtive  query, 
and  amiably  frank  welcome, — the  frank  welcome  a  very 
faint  element  indeed,  though  it  was  brought  to  light  by  a 
violent  effort.  Haworth  shut  the  door  and  locked  it,  and 
then  turned  upon  him,  his  face  black  with  rage. 

"  Say  summat ! "  he  ground  out  through  his  teeth. 
"  Say  summat  as'll  keep  me  from  smashing  every  bone  in 
your  body ! " 

Ffrench  gave  him  one  hopeless  glance  and  wilted  into 
a  drooping,  weakly  protesting,  humiliated  figure. 

"  Don't — don't  be  so  severe,  Haworth,"  he  said.  "  I — 
I " 

"  Blast  you  ! "  burst  in  Haworth,  pitilessly.  "  You've 
ruined  me ! " 

He  spoke  under  his  breath.  No  one  in  the  room  be 
yond  could  hear  a  word,  but  it  was  a  thousand  times 
more  terrible  than  if  he  had  roared  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  as  was  his  custom  when  things  went  amiss. 


"ANOTHER  MAN!"  291 

"  You've  ruined  me ! "  he  repeated.  "  You  !  A  chap 
that's  played  gentleman  manufacturer;  a  chap  I've 
laughed  at ;  a  chap  I  took  in  to  serve  my  own  ends — 
ruined  me,  by— 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  "  the  culprit  cried  out.  "  My  dear  fel 
low,  no !  No,  no !  " 

Haworth  strode  up  to  him  and  struck  his  fist  against 
the  table. 

"  Have  I  ever  told  you  a  word  of  what  was  going  on  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

"No!  No!" 

"  Have  I  ever  let  you  be  aught  but  what  I  swore  you 
should  be  at  th'  first — a  fellow  to  play  second  fiddle  and 
do  what  he  was  told  ? " 

Ffrench  turned  pale.  A  less  hard  nature  would  have 
felt  more  sympathy  for  him. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  you  have  not,"  and  his  chin 
dropped  on  his  breast. 

Haworth  shook  his  fist  in  his  face.  He  was  in  a  frenzy 
of  rage  and  despair. 

"  It's  been  going  from  bad  to  worse  for  six  months,"  he 
said ;  "but  you  were  not  up  to  seeing  it  stare  you  in  the 
face.  Strikes  are  the  things  for  trade  to  thrive  on  !  One 
place  after  another  gone  down  and  Jem  Haworth's  stood 
up.  Jem  Haworth's  outdone  'em  all.  I've  not  slept  for 
three  month,  my  lad.  I've  fought  it  like  a  tiger !  I've 
not  left  a  stone  unturned.  I've  held  my  mouth  shut  and 
my  eyes  open, — aye,  and  held  my  breath,  too.  I've  swore 
every  time  I  saw  daylight  that  I'd  hold  it  out  to  the  end 
and  show  'em  all  what  Haworth  was  made  of,  and  how 
he  stood  when  th'  nobs  went  down  at  the  first  drive.  I'd 
sooner  have  hell  than  what's  bound  to  come  now !  And 
it's  you  that's  done  it.  You've  lost  me  twenty  thousand 


292  "HAWORT&S." 

pound — twenty  thousand,  when  ten's  worth  more  to  me 
than  a  hundred  was  a  twelvemonth  since ! " 

Ffrench  quailed  like  a  woman. 

"  Are — are  you  going  to  murder  me  ? "  he  said.  "  You 
look  as  if  you  were." 

Haworth  turned  on  his  heel. 

"  You're  not  worth  it,"  he  answered,  "  or  I'd  do  it,  by 
the  Lord  Harry." 

Then  he  came  back  to  him. 

"I've  paid  enow  for  what  I've  never  had,  by  George," 
he  said,  with  bitter  grimness. 

"  For  what  you  have "  Ffrench  began. 

Haworth  stopped  him  by  flinging  himself  down  in  a 
chair  near  him — so  near  that  their  faces  were  brought 
within  uncomfortably  close  range  of  each  other.  There 
was  no  avoiding  his  eye. 

"  You  know  what,"  he  sneered.     "  None  better." 

«  I  _     _  »  Ffrench  faltered. 

"  Blast  you !  "  said  Haworth.  "  You  played  her  like 
bait  to  a  fish — in  your  gentleman's  fashion." 

Ffrench  felt  a  little  sick.  It  was  not  unnatural  that 
he  should.  A  man  of  refined  instincts  likes  less  than  any 
other  man  to  be  confronted  brutally  with  the  fact  that 
he  has,  however  delicately,  tampered  with  a  coarseness. 

Haworth  went  on. 

"  You  knew  how  to  do  it,  and  you  did  it — gentleman 
way.  You  knew  me  and  you  knew  I  was  hard  hit  and  you 
knew  I'd  make  a  big  throw.  That  was  between  us  two, 
though  we  never  said  a  word.  I'd  never  give  up  a  thing 
in  my  life  before  and  I  was  mad  for  her.  She  knew  how 
to  hold  me  off  and  gave  me  plenty  to  think  of.  What  else 
had  you,  my  lad  ?  '  Haworth's  '  didn't  want  a  gentleman  ; 
1  Haworth's '  didn't  want  brass,  and  you'd  none  to  give  if 


"ANOTHER  MAN!"  293 

it  did.  It  wasn't  you  who  was  took  in  partner ;  it  was 
what  Jem  Haworth  was  aiming  at — and  has  missed, 
by- 

He  got  up,  and,  pushing  his  chair  back,  made  a  stride 
toward  the  door.  Ffrench  was  sure  he  was  going  away 
without  another  word,  but  he  suddenly  stopped  and  turned 
back. 

"  I'd  sooner  take  hell  than  what's  comin',"  he  repeated 
in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  And  it's  you  that's  brought  it  on 
me ;  but  if  I'd  got  what  I  aimed  at,  it  might  have  come 
and  welcome." 

Then  he  went  out. 

He  went  across  to  the  Works,  and,  going  into  his  room, 
he  found  Murdoch  standing  at  one  of  the  windows  gazing 
out  at  something  in  the  street.  He  was  haggard  and  gaunt 
and  had  a  vacant  look.  It  occurred  to  Haworth  that 
some  sudden  physical  ailment  had  attacked  him.  He  went 
up  to  his  side. 

u  What  have  you  found,  lad  ?  "  he  demanded. 

The  next  instant  his  own  eyes  discovered  what  it  was. 
An  open  carriage  was  just  drawing  up  before  the  bank- 
Rachel  Ffrench  sat  in  it,  and  Saint  Meran  was  with  her. 

He  looked  at  them  a  second  or  so  and  then  looked  at 
Murdoch — at  his  wretched  face  and  his  hollow  eyes.  An 
unsavory  exclamation  burst  from  him. 

"  What !  "  he  cried  out  after  it.  "  There's  another  man, 
is  there?  Is  it  that?" 

"  Yes,"  was  Murdoch's  monotonous  reply.  "  There's 
another  man." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"  EVEN." 

THE  same  evening  M.  Saint  Meran  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  a  person  of  whom  he  had  heard  much,  and  in 
whom  he  was  greatly  interested.  This  person  was  the 
master  of  "  Ilaworth's,"  who  came  in  after  dinner. 

If  he  had  found  Murdoch  a  little  trying  and  wearisome, 
M.  Saint  Meran  found  Haworth  astounding.  He  was  not 
at  all  prepared  for  him.  When  he  walked  into  the  room 
as  if  it  were  his  own,  gave  a  bare  half -nod  to  Ffrench, 
and  carried  himself  aggressively  to  Miss  Ffrench's  side, 
Saint  Meran  was  transfixed  with  astonishment.  He  had 
heard  faint  rumors  of  something  like  this  before,  but  he 
never  dreamed  of  seeing  it.  He  retreated  within  himself 
and  proceeded  to  study  minutely  the  manners  and  char 
acteristics  of  the  successful  manufacturers  of  Great 
Britain. 

"  He  is  very  large,"  he  said,  with  soft  sarcasm,  to  Miss 
Ffrench.  "  Very  large  indeed." 

"  That,"  replied  Miss  Ffrench,  "  is  probably  the  result 
of  the  iron  trade." 

The  truth  was  that  he  seemed  to  fill  the  room.  The 
time  had  passed  when  he  was  ill  at  ease  in  the  house. 
Now  he  was  cool  to  defiance.  Ffrench  had  never  found 
him  so  embarrassing  as  he  was  upon  this  particular  even 
ing.  He  spoke  very  little,  sitting  in  his  chair  silent,  with 


"EVEN."  295 

a  gloomy  and  brooding  look.  When  he  directed  his  atten- 
tion  upon  any  one,  it  was  upon  Rachel.  The  prolonged 
gaze  which  he  occasionally  fixed  upon  her  was  one  of  evil 
scrutiny,  which  stirred  her  usually  cool  blood  not  a  little. 
She  never  failed,  however,  to  meet  it  with  composure. 
At  last  she  did  a  daring  thing.  Under  cover  of  a  conver 
sation  between  her  father  and  Saint  Meran,  she  went  to 
the  table  at  his  side  and  began  to  turn  over  the  books 
upon  it. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  in  an  undertone,  "  that  you  have 
something  to  say  to  me." 

"  Aye,"  he  answered,  "  I  have  that,  and  the  time  '11 
come  when  I  shall  say  it,  too." 

"  You  think  I'm  afraid  to  hear  it,"  she  continued. 
"  Follow  me  into  the  next  room  and  see." 

Then  she  addressed  her  father,  speaking  aloud. 

"  Your  plans  for  the  new  bank  are  in  the  next  room,  I 
believe,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  to  show  them  to  Mr.  Ha- 
worth." 

"  Y — yes,"  he  admitted,  somewhat  reluctantly.  "  They 
are  on  my  table." 

She  passed  through  the  folding  doors  and  Haworth  fol 
lowed  her.  She  stopped  at  one  of  the  windows  and 
waited  for  him  to  speak,  and  it  was  during  this  moment 
in  which  she  waited  that  he  saw  in  her  face  what  he  had 
not  seen  before — a  faint  pallor  and  a  change  which  was 
not  so  much  a  real  change  as  the  foreshadowing  of  one  to 
come.  He  saw  it  now  because  it  chanced  that  the  light 
struck  full  upon  her. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "say  your  say.  But  let  me  tell  you 
that  I  shall  listen  not  because  I  feel  a  shadow  of  interest 
in  it,  but  because  I  know  you  thought  I  shrank  from  hear 
ing  it." 


296  "HAWORTH'B." 

He  pushed  open  the  French  window  and  strode  on  to 
the  terrace. 

"  Step  out  here,"  he  said. 

She  went  out. 

"  This,"  he  said,  glancing  about  him,  "  this  is  th'  place 
you  stood  on  th'  night  you  showed  yourself  to  the  stri 
kers." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  It's  as  good  a  place  as  any,"  he  went  on.  "I'm  going 
to  have  it  out  with  you,"  he  said,  with  bitter  significance. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  struck  her  that  she  had  over 
stepped  the  mark  and  done  a  dangerous  thing,  but  she 
would  have  borne  a  great  deal  sooner  than  turn  back,  and 
so  she  remained. 

"  I've  stood  it  a  long  time,"  he  said,  "  and  now  I'm  go 
ing  to  reckon  up.  There's  a  good  bit  of  reckoning  up  to 
be  done  betwixt  you  and  me,  for  all  you've  held  me  at 
arm's  length." 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  put  in,  "  that  you  acknowledge  that  I 
did  hold  you  at  arm  s  length,  and  that  you  were  not  blind 
to  it." 

"  Oh,"  he  answered,  "  I  wasn't  blind  to  it,  no  more  than 
you  were  blind  to  the  other ;  and  from  first  to  last  it's 
been  my  comfort  to  remember  that  you  weren't  blind  to 
the  other — that  you  knew  it  as  well  as  I  did.  I've  held 
to  that." 

He  came  close  to  her. 

"  When  I  give  up  what  I'd  worked  twenty  year  to  get, 
what  did  I  give  it  up  for?  For  you.  When  I  took 
Ff rench  in  partner,  what  did  I  run  the  risk  for  ?  For 
you.  What  was  to  pay  me ?  You" 

His  close  presence  in  the  shadow  was  so  intolerable  to 
her  that  she  could  have  cried  out,  but  she  did  not. 


"  EVEN."  297 

"  You  made  a  poor  bargain,"  she  remarked. 

"  Aye,  a  poor  bargain  ;  but  you  were  one  in  it.  You 
bore  it  in  your  mind,  arid  you've  bore  it  there  from  then 
till  now,  and  I've  got  a  hold  on  you  through  it  that's 
worth  summat  to  me,  if  I  never  came  nigh  nor  touched 
you.  You  knew  it,  and  you  let  it  be.  No  other  chap  can 
pay  more  for  you  than  Jem  Ha  worth's  paid.  I've  got 
that  to  think  of." 

She  made  a  gesture  with  her  hand. 

« I— I— hush !  "  she  cried.     "  I  will  not  hear  it ! " 

"  Stop  it,  if  you  can.  Call  'em  if  you  want,  and  let 
'em  hear  — th'  new  chap  and  all.  You  shall  hear,  if  all 
Broxton  comes.  I've  paid  twenty-five  year  of  work  and 
sweat  and  grime;  I've  paid  'Haworth's' — for  I'm  a 
ruined  chap  as  I  stand  here ;  and  but  for  you  I'd  have 
got  through." 

There  was  a  shock  in  these  last  words ;  if  they  were 
true  the  blow  would  fall  on  her  too. 

"  What,"  she  faltered,—"  what  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Th'  strikes  begun  it,"  he  answered,  laconically,  "  and," 
with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  toward  the  room  in  which  her 
father  sat,  "  he  finished  it.  He  tried  some  of  his  gentle 
man  pranks  in  a  quiet  way,  and  he  lost  money  on  'em. 
He's  lost  it  again  and  again,  and  tried  to  cover  it  with 
fresh  shifts,  and  it's  <  Haworth's  '  that  must  pay  for  'em. 
It'll  come  sooner  or  later,  and  you  may  make  up  your 
mind  to  it." 

"  What  were  you  doing  ? "  she  demanded,  sharply. 
"  You  might  have  known " 

"  Aye,"  he  returned,  "  what  was  I  doing  ?  I  used  to  be 
a  sharp  chap  enow.  I've  not  been  as  sharp  i'  th'  last  twelve 
month,  and  he  was  up  to  it.  He  thought  it  was  his  own 
braes,  likely — he'd  give  summat  for  it  as  belonged  to  him." 
13* 


298  "HAWORTH'S." 

lie  came  nearer  to  the  light  and  eyed  her  over. 

"  You've  had  your  day,"  he  said.  "  You've  made  a 
worse  chap  of  me  than  I  need  have  been.  You — you  lost 
me  a  friend ;  I  hadn't  counted  that  in.  You've  done 
worse  by  him  than  you've  done  by  me.  He  was  th'  finer 
mak'  of  th'  two,  and  it'll  go  harder  with  him.  When  I 
came  in,  he  was  hanging  about  the  road-side,  looking  up 
at  the  house.  He  didn't  see  me,  but  I  saw  him.  He'll 
bo  there  many  a  night,  I  dare  say.  I'd  be  ready  to  swear 
lie's  there  now." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  I  mean — Murdoch !  " 

The  very  sound  of  his  own  voice  seemed  to  fire  him 
with  rage.  She  saw  a  look  in  his  eye  which  caused  her 
to  shrink  back.  But  she  was  too  late.  He  caught  her  by 
the  arm  and  dragged  her  toward  him. 

A  second  later  when  he  released  her,  she  staggered  to 
one  of  the  rustic  seats  and  sank  crouching  into  it,  hiding 
her  face  in  the  folds  of  her  dress.  She  had  not  cried  out, 
however,  nor  uttered  a  sound,  and  he  had  known  she  would 
not. 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her. 

"  A  gentleman  wouldn't  have  done  it,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 
"  I'm  not  a  gentleman.  You've  held  me  off  and  trampled 
me  under  foot.  That'll  leave  us  a  bit  even." 

And  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away  into  the 
darkness. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"  WHY   DO    YOU   CRY   FOR   ME  ?  " 

WHEN  he  said  that  he  had  seen  Murdoch  standing  in  the 
road  before  the  house,  he  had  spoken  the  truth.  It  was 
also  true  that  even  as  they  stood  upon  the  terrace  he  was 
there  still. 

He  was  there  every  night.  Where  he  slept  or  when,  or 
if  at  all,  his  mother  and  Christian  did  not  know ;  they 
only  knew  that  he  never  spent  a  night  at  home.  They 
barely  saw  him  from  day  to  day.  When  he  came  home 
in  the  morning  and  evening,  it  was  to  sit  at  the  table, 
rarely  speaking,  scarcely  tasting  food,  only  drinking 
greedily  the  cup  of  strong  coffee  Christian  always  had  in 
readiness  for  him.  The  girl  was  very  good  to  him  in 
these  days.  She  watched  him  in  terror  of  his  unnatural 
mood.  He  hardly  seemed  to  see  them  when  they  were  in 
the  room  with  him ;  his  eyes  were  hollow  and  burning 
bright ;  he  grew  thin  and  narrow-chested  and  stooped ; 
his  hands  were  unsteady  when  he  lifted  anything. 

When  she  was  alone,  Christian  said  to  herself  again  and 
again : 

"  He  will  die.  There  is  no  help  for  it.  He  will  die — 
or  worse." 

One  morning  she  came  down  to  find  him  lying  on  the 
sofa  with  closed  eyes  and  such  a  deathly  face  that  she 
almost  cried  out  aloud.  But  she  restrained  herself  and 


300  "HAWORT&S" 

went  into  the  kitchen  as  if  to  perform  her  usual  tasks. 
Not  long  afterward  she  returned  carrying  a  little  tray  with 
M  cup  of  hot  coffee  upon  it. 

"  Will  you  drink  this  for  me  ?  "  she  said  to  him. 

He  opened  his  eyes  a  little  impatiently,  but  he  sat  up 
and  drank  it. 

"  It's  very  good,"  he  said,  as  he  fell  back  again  into  his 
old  position,  "  but  you  mustn't  put  yourself  to  trouble  for 
me." 

Afterward  the  coffee  was  always  ready  for  him  when 
he  came  in,  and  he  got  into  the  habit  of  drinking  it  me 
chanically. 

The  books  he  had  been  accustomed  to  pore  over  at 
every  leisure  moment  lay  unopened.  He  neither  touched 
nor  looked  at  them. 

The  two  women  tried  to  live  their  lives  as  if  nothing 
were  happening.  They  studiously  avoided  questioning 
or  appearing  to  observe  him. 

"  We  must  not  let  him  think  that  we  talk  of  him," 
Christian  said. 

She  showed  a  wonderful  gentleness  and  tact.  Until 
long  afterward,  Mrs.  Murdoch  scarcely  knew  what  support 
and  comfort  she  had  in  her.  Pier  past  life  had  planted 
in  her  a  readiness  to  despair. 

"  He  is  like  his  father,"  she  said  once.  "  He  was  like 
him  as  a  child.  He  is  very  trusting  and  faithful,  but 
when  his  belief  is  gone  it  is  all  over.  He  has  given  up  as 
his  father  did  before  he  died.  He  will  not  try  to  live." 

He  did  not  try  to  live,  but  he  did  not  think  of  death. 
He  was  too  full  of  other  morbid  thoughts.  He  could  not 
follow  any  idea  far.  A  thousand  of  them  came  and  went, 
and  in  the  end  were  as  nothing. 

"Why,"  he  kept  saying  to  himself  weakly  and  wearily, 


"  WHY  DO    YOU  CRY  FOR  ME?"  SOI 

— "  why  was  it  ?  What  had  I  done  ?  It  was  a  strange 
thing  to  choose  me  out  of  so  many.  I  was  hardly  worth 
it.  To  have  chosen  another  man  would  have  served  her 
better." 

He  did  not  know  how  the  days  passed  at  the  Works. 
The  men  began  to  gaze  at  him  askance  and  mutter  when 
he  went  by. 

"  Th'  feyther  went  daft,"  they  said.  "  Is  this  chap 
goin'  th'  same  way  ? " 

It  was  only  the  look  of  his  face  which  made  them  say 
so.  He  got  through  his  work  one  way  or  another.  But 
the  days  were  his  dread.  The  nights,  strange  and  dread 
ful  enough,  were  better  than  the  broad  daylight,  with  the 
scores  of  hands  about  him  and  the  clangor  of  hammers 
and  whir  of  machinery.  He  fell  into  the  habit  of  going 
to  the  engine-room  and  standing  staring  at  the  engine, 
fascinated  by  it.  Once  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  with 
such  a  look  in  his  eye  that  Floxhain  began  to  regard  him 
stealthily.  He  went  closer,  pace  by  pace,  and  at  last 
made  a  step  which  brought  a  shout  from  Floxhain,  who 
sprang  upon  him  and  tore  him  away. 

"  What  art  at,  tha  f oo'  ?  "  he  yelled.  "  Does  tha  want 
to  go  whoam  on  a  shutter  \ " 

Wakening,  with  a  long  breath,  he  said : 

"  I  forgot,  that  was  it.  I  was  thinking  of  another 
thing." 

The  time  came  at  length  when  he  had  altered  so  that 
when  he  went  out  his  mother  and  Christian  often  sat  up 
together  half  the  night  trembling  with  a  fear  neither  of 
them  would  have  put  into  words.  As  they  sat  trying  to 
talk,  each  would  glance  at  the  other  stealthily,  and  when 
their  eyes  met,  each  would  start  as  if  with  some  guilty 
thought. 


302  "  HA  WORTH'S." 

On  one  of  the  worst  and  most  dreadful  of  nights,  Chris 
tian  suddenly  rose  from  her  seat,  crossed  the  hearth  and 
threw  herself  upon  her  knees  before  her  companion. 

"  I  am  going  out,"  she  said.  "  Don't — don't  try  to  keep 
me." 

"  It  is  midnight,"  said  Mrs.  Murdoch,  "  and — you  don't 
know  where  to  go." 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  returned,  "  I  do.  For  God's  sake,  let 
me  go !  I  cannot  bear  it." 

The  woman  gave  her  a  long  look,  and  then  said  a  strange 
and  cruel  thing. 

"  You  had  better  stay  where  you  are.  It  is  not  you  he 
wants." 

" No,"  she  said  bitterly,  "it  is  not  I  he  wants ;  but  I 
can  find  him  and  make  sure — that — he  will  come  back. 
And  then  you  will  go  to  sleep."  She  left  her  in  spite  of 
her  efforts  to  detain  her.  She  was  utterly  fearless,  and 
went  into  the  night  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  peril 
on  earth. 

She  did  know  where  to  go  and  went  there.  Murdoch 
was  standing  opposite  the  house  in  which  Rachel  Ff  rench 
slept.  She  went  to  him  and  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ? "  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
He  turned  and  gave  her  a  cold,  vacant  look.  He  did  not 
seem  at  all  surprised  at  finding  her  dark,  beautiful  young 
face  at  his  very  shoulder. 

"  I  don't  know.     Can  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  We  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  she  said.  "  We  can 
not  rest  when  you  are  away." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  home  and  go  to  bed  decent 
ly  and  sleep  ? "  he  said.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  would  not, 
if  I  could  ?  I  always  start  from  here  and  come  back 
here.  I  say  to  myself,  c  It  will  take  me  an  hour  to  reach 


"  WHY  DO    YOU  CRY  FOR  ME?"  303 

the  place  where  I  can  see  her  window.'  It  is  something 
to  hold  one's  mind  in  check  with.  This  rambling — and 
— and  forgetting  what  one  has  meant  to  think  about  is  a 
terrible  thing." 

"  Come  home  with  me,"  she  said.  "  We  will  not  talk. 
You  can  lie  on  the  sofa  and  we  will  go  away.  I  want 
your  mother  to  sleep." 

Something  in  her  presence  began  to  influence  him  to  a 
saner  mood. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked.  "  It  is  mid 
night." 

''  I  am  not  afraid.  I  could  not  bear  to  stay  in  the 
house.  We  sit  there " 

An  idea  seemed  to  strike  him  suddenly.  He  stopped 
her  and  asked  deliberately  : 

"  Did  you  come  because  you  thought  I  might  do  myself 
harm?" 

She  would  not  answer,  and  after  waiting  a  second  or  so 
he  w^ent  on  slowly  : 

"  I  have  thought  I  might  myself — sometimes,  but  never 
for  long.  You  have  no  need  to  fear.  I  am  always  stopped 
by  the  thought  that — perhaps — it  is  not  worth  it  after  all. 
When  things  look  clearer,  I  shall  get  over  it.  Yes — I 
think  I  shall  get  over  it — though  now  there  seems  to  be 
no  end.  But — some  day — it  will  come — and  I  shall  get 
over  it.  Don't  be  afraid  that  I  shall  do  myself  harm.  If 
J  am  not  killed — before  the  end  comes — I  shall  not  kill 
myself.  I  shall  know  it  was  not  worth  it  after  all." 

The  tears  had  been  running  down  her  cheeks  as  she 
stood,  but  she  bit  her  lip  and  forced  herself  to  breathe 
evenly,  so  that  he  might  not  find  her  out.  But  just  then, 
as  he  moved,  a  great  drop  fell  upon  the  back  of  his  hand. 
He  stopped  and  began  to  tremble. 


304  "  HAWORTH'8." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  cried.  "  You  are  crying.  Why 
do  you  cry  for  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said  in  a  half -whisper. 
"  I  do  not  cry  often.  I  never  cried  for  any  one  before." 

"  I'll  take  you  home,"  he  said,  moving  slowly  along  at 
her  side.  "  Don't  cry." 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

"IT    IS    WORSE    THAN   I    THOUGHT." 

A  WEEK  or  so  later  Saint  JVTeran  went  away.  Ffrench 
informed  his  partner  of  this  fact  with  a  secret  hope  of 
its  producing  upon  him  a  somewhat  softening  effect. 
But  Haworth  received  the  statement  with  coolness. 

"  He'll  come  back  again,"  he  said.  "  Let  him  alone  for 
that." 

The  general  impression  was  that  he  would  return.  The 
opinion  most  popular  in  the  more  humble  walks  of  Brox- 
ton  society  was  that  he  had  gone  "  to  get  hissen  ready  an' 
ha'  th'  papers  drawed  up,"  and  that  he  would  appear 
some  fine  day  with  an  imposing  retinae,  settle  an  enormous 
fortune  upon  Miss  Ffrench,  and,  having  been  united  to 
her  with  due  grandeur  and  solemnity,  would  disappear 
with  her  to  indefinitely  "  furrin  "  parts. 

There  seemed  to  be  little  change  in  Rachel  Ffrench's 
life  and  manner,  however.  She  began  to  pay  rather 
more  strict  attention  to  her  social  duties,  and  consequently 
went  out  oftener.  This  might  possibly  be  attributed  to 
the  fact  that  remaining  in-doors  was  somewhat  dull.  Ha 
worth  and  Murdoch  came  no  more,  and  after  Saint  Me  rail's 
departure  a  sort  of  silence  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  house. 
Ffrench  himself  felt  it  when  he  came  in  at  night,  and  was 
naturally  restless  under  it.  Perhaps  l\tiss  Ffrench  felt  it, 
too,  though  she  did  not  say  so. 


306  "HAWORTH'S." 

One  morning,  Janey  Briarley,  sitting  nursing  the  baby 
in  the  door-way  of  the  cottage,  glanced  upward  from  her 
somewhat  arduous  task  to  find  a  tall  and  graceful  figure 
standing  before  her  in  the  sun.  She  had  been  too  busily 
engaged  to  hear  footsteps,  and  there  had  been  no  sound 
of  carriage-wheels,  so  the  visitor  had  come  upon  her  en 
tirely  unawares. 

It  cannot  be  said  she  received  her  graciously.  Her 
whilom  admiration  had  been  much  tempered  by  sharp 
distrust  very  early  in  her  acquaintance  with  its  object. 

"  Art  tha  coomin'  in  ?  "  she  asked  unceremoniously. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Ffrench,  "  I  am  coming  in." 

Janey  got  up  and  made  room  for  her  to  pass,  and  when 
she  had  passed,  gave  her  a  chair,  very  much  overweighted 
by  the  baby  as  she  did  so. 

"  Does  tha  want  to  see  mother  1 " 

"If  your  mother  is  busy,  you  will  serve  every  purpose. 
The  housekeeper  told  me  that  Mrs.  Dixon  was  ill,  and  as 
I  was  passing  I  thought  I  would  come  in." 

Janey's  utter  disbelief  in  this  explanation  was  a  senti 
ment  not  easily  concealed,  even  by  an  adept  in  controlling 
facial  expression,  and  she  was  not  an  adept.  But  Miss 
Ffrench  was  not  at  all  embarrassed  by  any  demonstration 
of  a  lack  of  faith  which  she  might  have  perceived.  When 
Janey  resumed  her  seat,  she  broke  the  silence  by  an  en 
tirely  unexpected  observation.  She  touched  the  baby 
delicately  with  the  point  of  her  parasol — very  delicately 
indeed. 

"  1  suppose,"  she  remarked,  (i  that  this  is  an  extremely 
handsome  child." 

This  with  the  air  of  one  inquiring  for  information. 

"  Nay,  he  is  na,"  retorted  Janey  unrelentingly.  "  He's 
good  enow,  but  he  nivver  wur  hurt  wi'  good  looks.  None 


"  IT  IS  WORSE  THAN  I  THOUGHT."  307 

on  'em  wur,  an'  he's  fou'est  o'  th'  lot.  I  should  think 
tha  could  see  that  fur  thysen." 

"  Oh,"  replied  Miss  Ff  rench,  "  then  I  suppose  I  am 
wrong.  My  idea  was  that  at  that  age  children  all  looked 
alike." 

"  Loike  him  ? ''  said  Janey  dryly.  "  Did  tha  think  as 
tha  did  ? " 

As  the  young  Briarley  in  question  was  of  a  stolid  and 
unornamental  type,  uncertain  of  feature  and  noticeable 
chiefly  for  a  large  and  unusually  bald  head  of  extraordi 
nary  phrenological  development,  this  gave  the  matter  an 
entirely  novel  aspect. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Ff  rench,  "  I  scarcely  regarded  it 
from  that  point  of  view." 

Then  she  changed  the  subject. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Dixon  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  She's  neyther  better  nor  worse,"  was  the  answer,  "  an' 
a  mort  o'  trouble." 

"  That  is  unfortunate.     Who  cares  for  her  ? " 

"  Mother.     She's  th'  on'y  one  as  can  do  owt  wi'  her." 

"  Is  there  no  one  else  she  has  a  fancy  for — your  father, 
for  instance  ? "  inquired  Miss  Ffrench. 

"  She  conna  bide  th'  soight  o'  him,  an'  he's  feart  to  go 
nigh  her.  Th'  ony  man  as  she  ivver  looked  at  wur  Mur 
doch,"  answered  Janey. 

"  I  think  I  remember  his  saying  she  had  made  friends 
with  him.  Is  she  as  fond  of  him  now  ?  " 

"  I  dunnot  know  as  I  could  ca'  it  bein'  fond  on  him. 
She  is  na  fond  o'  nobody.  But  she  says  he's  getten  a  bit 
more  sense  than  th'  common  run." 

"  It  is  rather  good-natured  on  his  part  to  come  to  see 
her- 

"  He  does  na  coom  to  see  her.     He  has  na  been   nigh 


308  "HAWORTH'S." 

th'  house  fur  a  month.  He's  been  ill  hissen  or  summat. 
He's  up  an'  about,  but  he'd  getten  a  face  loike  Death  th' 
last  toime  I  seed  him.  Happen  he's  goin'  off  loike  his 
feyther." 

"  How  is  that  \  " 

"  Did  na  tha  know,"  with  some  impatience,  "  as  he 
went  crazy  over  summat  he  wur  makkin',  an'  deed  'cause 
he  could  na  mak'  out  to  finish  it  ?  It's  th'  very  thing 
Murdoch  took  up  hissen  air  th'  stroikers  wur  so  set  ag'in." 

"  I  think  I  remember.  There  was  a  story  about  the 
father.  Do  you — think  he  is  really  ill  ? " 

"  Murdoch  1  Aye,  I  do- — Mak'less  noise,  Tummos 
Henry !  "  (This  to  the  child.) 

"  That  is  a  great  pity.     Ah,  there  is  the  carriage." 

One  of  her  gloves  had  been  lying  upon  her  lap.  When 
she  stood  up,  it  dropped.  She  bent  to  pick  it  up,  and  as 
she  did  so  something  fell  tinkling  upon  the  flag  floor  and 
rolled  under  a  table.  It  was  one  of  her  rings.  Janey 
brought  it  back  to  her. 

"  It  mun  ha'  been  too  large  fur  thee,"  she  said,  "  or 
tha'rt  gettin'  thin.  Seems  loike  tha'rt  a  bit  different  to 
what  tha  wur,"  with  a  glance  at  her. 

"Never  mind  that,"  she  answered  sharply,  as  she 
handed  her  some  money.  "  Give  this  to  your  mother." 

And  she  dropped  the  ring  into  her  purse  instead  of 
putting  it  on  again,  and  went  out  to  her  carriage. 

Janey  stood  and  watched  her. 

"  She  is  a  bit  thinner,  or  summat,"  she  remarked,  "  but 
she  need  na  moind  that.  It's  genteel  enow  to  be  thin,  an' 
I  dunnot  know  as  it  ud  hurt  her." 

Rachel  Ffrench  went  home,  and  the  same  afternoon 
Murdoch  came  to  her  for  the  last  time. 

He  had  not  intended  to  come.     In  his  wildest  moments 


"  IT  IS  WORSE  THAN  I  THOUGHT."  309 

he  had  never  thought  of  going  to  her  again,  but  as  he 
passed  along  the  road,  intending  to  spend  the  afternoon 
in  wandering  across  the  country,  he  looked  up  at  the  win 
dows  of  the  house,  and  a  strange  fancy  seized  upon  him. 
He  would  go  in  and  ask  her  the  question  he  had  asked 
himself  again  and  again.  It  did  not  seem  to  him  at  the 
time  a  strange  tiling  to  do.  It  looked  wonderfully  sim 
ple  and  natural  in  his  strained  and  unnatural  mood.  He 
turned  in  at  the  gate  with  only  one  feeling — that  perhaps 
she  would  tell  him,  and  then  it  would  be  over.  She  saw 
him  come  up  the  path,  and  wondered  if  the  man  at  the 
door  would  remember  the  charge  she  had  given  him.  It 
chanced  that  he  did  not  remember,  or  that  he  was  thrown 
off  his  guard.  She  heard  feet  on  the  stairs  in  a  few 
seconds,  and  almost  immediately  Murdoch  was  in  the 
room.  What  she  thought  when,  being  brought  thus  near 
to  him,  she  saw  and  recognized  the  dreadful  change  in 
him,  God  knows.  She  supported  herself  with  her  hand 
upon  the  back  of  her  chair  as  she  rose.  There  was  a  look 
in  his  face  almost  wolfish.  He  would  not  sit  down,  and 
in  three  minutes  broke  through  the  barrier  of  her  effort 
at  controlling  him.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  control 
him  as  she  might  have  controlled  another  man. 

"  I  have  only  a  few  words  to  say,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
come  to  ask  you  a  question.  I  think  that  is  all — only  to 
ask  you  a  question." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  what  wrong  I  have  done 
you  ?  » 

She  put  her  other  hand  on  the  chair  and  held  it  firmly. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper, 
"  what  wrong  I  have  done  you  ?  " 

She  remained  so,  looking  at  him  and  he  at  her,  with  a 
terrible  helplessness,  through  a  moment  of  dead  silence. 


310  "HAWORTH'S." 

She  dropped  her  face  upon  her  hands  as  she  held  the 
chair,  and  so  stood. 

He  fell  back  a  pace,  gazing  at  her  still. 

"  I  have  heard  of  women  who  fancied  themselves  in 
jured,"  he  said,  "  planning  to  revenge  themselves  upon 
the  men  who  had  intentionally  or  unintentionally  wound 
ed  their  pride.  I  remember  such  things  in  books  I  have 
read,  not  in  real  life,  and  once  or  twice  the  thought  has 
crossed  my  mind  that  at  some  time  in  the  past  I  might, 
in  my  poor  ignorance,  have  presumed — or — blundered  in 
some  way  to — anger  you — and  that  this  has  been  my  pun 
ishment.  It  is  only  a  wild  thought,  but  it  was  a  straw  to 
cling  to.  and  I  would  rather  believe  it,  wild  as  it  is,  than 
believe  that  what  you  have  done  has  been  done  wantonly. 
Can  it  be — is  it  true  ? " 

"No." 

But  she  did  not  lift  her  face. 

«  It  is  not  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Then  it  is  worse  than  I  thought." 

He  said  the  words  slowly  and  clearly,  and  they  were 
his  last.  Having  said  them,  he  went  away  without  a 
backward  glance. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

ONCE   AGAIN. 

IN  half  an  hour's  time  Murdoch  had  left  Broxton  far 
behind  him.  He  left  the  open  road  and  rambled  across 
fields  and  through  lanes.  The  people  in  the  farm-houses, 
who  knew  him,  saw  him  pass  looking  straight  before  him 
and  walking  steadily  like  a  man  with  an  end  in  view. 

His  mind  was  full  of  one  purpose — the  determination 
to  control  himself  and  keep  his  brain  clear. 

"  Now"  he  said,  "  let  me  think  it  over — now  let  me 
look  at  it  in  cold  blood." 

The  effort  he  made  was  something  gigantic ;  it  was  a 
matter  of  physical  as  well  as  mental  force.  He  had  wav 
ered  and  been  vague  long  enough.  Now  the  time  had 
come  to  rouse  himself  through  sheer  power  of  will,  or 
give  up  the  reins  and  drift  with  the  current,  a  lost  man. 

At  dusk  he  reached  Dillup,  and  roamed  about  the 
streets,  half  conscious  of  his  surroundings.  The  Saturday- 
night  shopping  was  going  on,  and  squalid  women  hurry 
ing  past  him  with  their  baskets  on  their  arms  glanced  up, 
wondering  at  his  dark  face  and  preoccupied  air. 

"  lie's  noan  Dillup,"  they  said  ;  one  good  woman  going 
so  far  as  to  add  that  "  she  did  na  loike  th'  looks  on  him 
neyther,"  with  various  observations  upon  the  moral  char 
acter  of  foreigners  in  general.  He  saw  nothing  of  the 
sensation  he  created,  however.  He  rambled  about  errati- 


312  "HAWORTWS." 

cally  until  he  felt  the  need  of  rest,  and  then  went  into  a 
clean  little  shop  and  bought  some  simple  food  and  ate  it 
sitting  upon  the  tall  stool  before  the  counter,  watched  by 
the  stout,  white-aproned  matron  in  charge. 

"Tha  looks  poorly,  mester,"  she  said,  as  she  handed 
him  his  change. 

He  started  a  little  on  hearing  her  voice,  but  recovered 
himself  readily. 

"  Oh  no,"  he  said.  "  I'm  right  enough,  I  think.  I'm 
an  American,  and  I  suppose  we  are  rather  a  gaunt-look 
ing  lot  as  a  rule." 

"  'Merikin,  art  tha? "  she  replied.  "  Well  to  be  sure  ! 
Happen  that's  it"  (good  naturedly).  "I've  allus  heerd 
they  wur  a  poor  color.  'Merikin  !  Well — sure-Zy  /  " 

The  fact  of  his  being  an  American  seemed  to  impress 
her  deeply.  She  received  his  thanks  (she  was  not  often 
thanked  by  her  customers)  as  a  mysterious  though  not 
disagreeable  result  of  his  nationality,  and  as  he  closed  the 
door  after  him  he  heard,  as  an  accompaniment  to  the 
tinkling  of  the  shop-bell,  her  amiably  surprised  ejacula 
tion,  "  A  'Merikin !  Well— snre-ly  /  " 

A  few  miles  from  Broxton  there  was  a  substantial  little 
stone  bridge  upon  which  he  had  often  sat.  In  passing  it 
again  and  again  it  had  gradually  become  a  sort  of  rest 
ing  place  for  him.  It  was  at  a  quiet  point  of  the  road, 
and  sitting  upon  it  he  had  thought  out  many  a  problem. 
When  he  reached  it  on  his  way  back  he  stopped  and  took 
his  usual  seat,  looking  down  into  the  slow  little  stream 
beneath,  and  resting  against  the  low  buttress.  He  had 
not  come  to  work  out  a  problem  now  ;  he  felt  that  he  had 
worked  his  problem  out  in  the  past  six  hours. 

"  It  was  not  worth  it,"  he  said.  "  No — it  was  not  worth 
it  after  all." 


ONCE  AGAIN.  313 

When  he  went  on  his  way  again  he  was  very  tired,  and 
he  wondered  drearily  whether,  when  he  came  near  the 
old  miserable  stopping  place,  he  should  not  falter  and  feel 
the  fascination  strong  upon  him  again.  He  had  an  an 
noying  fear  of  the  mere  possibility  of  such  a  thing.  When 
he  saw  the  light  striking  slantwise  upon  the  trees  it  might 
draw  him  toward  it  as  it  had  done  so  often  before — even 
in  spite  of  his  determination  and  struggles. 

Half  a  mile  above  the  house  a  great  heat  ran  over  him, 
and  then  a  deadly  chill,  but  he  went  on  steadily.  There 
was  this  for  him,  that  for  the  first  time  he  could  think 
clearly  and  not  lose  himself. 

He  came  nearer  to  it  and  nearer,  and  it  grew  in  bright 
ness.  He  fancied  he  had  never  seen  it  so  bright  before. 
He  looked  up  at  it  and  then  away.  He  was  glad  that 
having  once  looked  he  could  turn  away ;  there  had  been 
many  a  night  when  he  could  not.  Then  he  was  under  the 
shadow  of  the  trees  and  knew  that  his  dread  had  been 
only  a  fancy,  and  that  he  was  a  saner  man  than  he  had 
thought.  And  the  light  was  left  behind  him  and  he  did 
not  look  back,  but  went  on. 

When  he  reached  home  the  house  was  utterly  silent, 
lie  entered  with  his  latch-key  and  finding  all  dark  went 
upstairs  noiselessly. 

The  door  of  his  own  room  was  closed,  and  when  he 
opened  it  he  found  darkness  there  also.  He  struck  a 
match  and  turned  on  the  light.  For  a  moment  its  sadden 
glare  blinded  him,  and  then  he  turned  involuntarily  toward 
the  farther  corner  of  the  room.  Why  he  did  so,  he  did 
not  know  at  the  time, — the  movement  was  the  result  of  an 
uncontrollable  impulse, — but  after  he  had  looked  he  knew. 

The  light  shone  upon  the  empty  chair  in  its  old  place — • 
and  upon  the  table  and  upon  the  model  standing  on  it  I 
14 


314: 

He  did  not  utter  any  exclamation ;  strangely  enough, 
he  did  not  at  first  feel  any  shock  or  surprise.  He  advanced 
toward  it  slowly.  But  when  at  last  he  stood  near  it,  the 
shock  came.  His  heart  beat  as  if  it  would  burst. 

"  What  falseness  is  there  in  me,"  he  cried,  "  that  I  should 
have  forgotten  it  ? " 

He  was  stricken  with  burning  shame.  He  did  not  ask 
himself  how  it  was  that  it  stood  there  in  its  place.  He 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  lack  in  himself  which  was  so 
deep  a  humiliation.  Everything  else  was  swept  away. 
He  sank  into  the  chair  and  sat  staring  at  it. 

"  I  had  forgotten  it,"  he  said, — "forgotten  it." 

And  then  he  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  and  moved 
it — and  drew  it  toward  him. 

About  an  hour  afterward  he  was  obliged  to  go  down 
stairs  for  something  he  needed.  It  was  to  the  sitting-room 
he  went,  and  when  he  pushed  the  door  open  he  found  a 
dim  light  burning  and  saw  that  some  one  was  lying  upon 
the  sofa.  His  first  thought  was  that  it  was  his  mother 
who  had  waited  for  him,  but  it  was  not  she — it  was  Chris 
tian  Murdoch,  fast  asleep  with  her  face  upon  her  arm. 

Her  hat  and  gloves  were  thrown  upon  the  table  and  she 
still  wore  a  long  gray  cloak  which  was  stained  and  damp 
about  the  hem.  He  saw  this  as  soon  as  he  saw  her  face, 
and  no  sooner  saw  than  he  understood. 

lit  went  to  the  sofa  and  stood  a  moment  looking  down 
at  her,  arid,  though  he  did  not  speak  or  stir,  she  awakened. 

She  sat  up  and  pushed  her  cloak  aside,  and  he  spoke  to 
her. 

"  It  was  you  who  brought  it  back,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  quietly.  "  I  thought  that  if  you 
saw  it  in  the  old  place  again,  you  would  remember." 


ONCE  AGAIN.  315 

"  You  did  not  forget  it." 

"  I  had  nothing  else  to  think  of,"  was  her  simple  reply. 

"  I  must  seem  a  poor  sort  of  fellow  to  you,"  he  said 
wearily.  "  I  am  a  poor  sort  of  fellow." 

"  No,"  she  said  "  or  I  should  not  have  thought  it  worth 
while  to  bring  it  back." 

He  glanced  down  at  her  dress  and  then  up  at  her  face. 

"  You  had  better  go  upstairs  to  bed,"  he  said.  "  The 
dew  has  made  your  dress  and  cloak  damp.  Thank  you 
for  what  you  have  done." 

She  got  up  and  turned  away. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said. 

"  Good-night,"  he  answered,  and  watched  her  out  of  the 
room. 

Then  he  found  what  he  required  and  went  back  to  his 
work  ;  only,  more  than  once  as  he  bent  over  it,  he  thought 
again  of  the  innocent  look  of  her  face  as  it  had  rested 
upon  her  arm  while  she  slept. 


CHAPTER   XLYIL 

A   FOOTSTEP. 

HE  went  out  no  more  at  night.  From  the  moment  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  model  again  he  was  safer  than  he 
knew.  Gradually  the  old  fascination  re-asserted  itself. 
There  were  hours  of  lassitude  and  weariness  to  be  borne, 
and  moments  of  unutterable  bitterness  and  disgust  for 
life,  in  which  he  had  to  fight  sharp  battles  against  the 
poorer  side  of  his  nature  ;  but  always  at  the  worst  there 
was  something  which  made  itself  a  point  to  fix  thought 
upon.  He  could  force  himself  to  think  of  this  when,  if 
he  had  had  no  purpose  in  view,  he  would  have  been  a 
lost  man.  The  keen  sense  of  treachery  to  his  own  resolve 
stung  him,  but  it  was  a  spur  after  all.  The  strength  of  the 
reaction  had  its  physical  effect  upon  him,  and  sometimes 
he  suddenly  found  himself  weak  to  exhaustion, — so  weak 
that  any  exertion  was  impossible,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
leave  his  post  at  the  Works  and  return  home  for  rest.  At 
such  times  he  lay  for  hours  upon  the  narrow  sofa  in  the  dull 
little  room,  as  his  father  had  done  long  before,  and  wore 
a  look  so  like  him  that,  one  day,  his  mother  coining  into 
the  room  not  knowing  he  was  there,  cried  out  aloud  and 
staggered  backward,  clutching  at  her  breast. 

Her  manner  toward  him  softened  greatly  in  these  days. 
It  was  more  what  it  had  been  in  his  boyhood,  when  she 
had  watched  over  him  with  patient  and  unfailing  fond- 


A  FOOTSTfiP.  317 

ness.  Once  he  awakened  to  see  her  standing  a  few  paces 
from  his  side,  seeming  to  have  been  there  some  moments. 

"  If — I  have  seemed  hard  to  you  in  your  trouble,"  she 
said,  "forgive  me." 

She  spoke  without  any  prelude,  and  did  not  seem  to 
expect  any  answer,  turning  away  and  going  about  her 
work  at  once,  but  he  felt  that  he  need  feel  restless  and 
chilled  in  her  presence  no  longer. 

He  did  not  pursue  his  task  at  home,  but  took  the  model 
down  to  the  Works  and  found  a  place  for  it  in  his  little 
work-cell. 

The  day  he  did  so  he  was  favored  by  a  visit  from  Ha- 
worth.  It  was  the  first  since  the  rupture  between  them. 
Since  then  they  had  worked  day  after  day  with  only  the 
door  between  them,  they  had  known  each  other's  incom 
ings  and  outgoings,  but  had  been  as  far  apart  as  if  a 
world  separated  them.  Haworth  had  known  more  of 
Murdoch  than  Murdoch  had  known  of  him.  No  change 
in  him  had  escaped  his  eye.  He  had  seen  him  struggle 
and  reach  his  climax  at  last.  He  had  jeered  at  him  as  a 
poor  enough  fellow  with  fine,  white-livered  fancies,  and  a 
woman's  way  of  bearing  himself.  He  had  raged  at  and 
cursed  him,  and  now  and  then  had  been  lost  in  wonder 
at  him,  but  he  had  never  fathomed  him  from  first  to  last. 

But  within  the  last  few  weeks  his  mood  had  changed, — 
slowly,  it  is  true,  but  it  had  changed.  His  bearing  had 
changed,  too.  Murdoch  himself  gradually  awakened  to  a 
recognition  of  this  fact,  in  no  small  wonder.  He  was  less 
dogged  and  aggressive,  and  showed  less  ill-will. 

That  he  should  appear  suddenly,  almost  in  his  old  way, 
was  a  somewhat  startling  state  of  aifairs,  but  he  crossed 
the  threshold  coolly. 

He  sat  down  and  folded  his  arms  on  the  table. 


318  "HAWOBTH'S." 

"  You  brought  summat  down  with  you  tills  morning," 
he  said.  "  What  was  it  ? " 

Murdoch  pointed  to  the  wooden  case,  which  stood  on  a 
shelf  a  few  feet  from  him. 

"  it  was  that,"  he  answered. 

"  That !  "  he  repeated.  "  What !  You're  at  work  at  it 
again,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  AVell,  look  sharp  after  it,  that's  all.  There's  a  grudge 
bore  again  it." 

"  I  know  that,"  Murdoch  answered,  "  to  my  cost.  I 
brought  it  here  because  I  thought  it  would  be  safer." 

"Aye,  it'll  be  safer.  Take  my  advice  and  keep  it 
close,  and  work  at  it  at  nights,  when  th'  place  is  quiet. 
There's  a  key  as  '11  let  you  in."  And  he  flung  a  key  down 
upon  the  table. 

Murdoch  picked  it  up  mechanically.  He  felt  as  if  he 
could  scarcely  be  awake.  It  seemed  as  if  the  man  must 
have  brought  his  purpose  into  the  room  with  him,  having 
thought  it  over  beforehand.  His  manner  by  no  means 
disarmed  the  suspicion. 

"  It  is  the  favor  I  should  have  asked,  if  I  had 
thought " 

Haworth  left  his  chair. 

"There's  th'  key,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "Use  it.  No 
other  chap  would  get  it." 

He  went  back  to  his  own  room,  and  Murdoch  was  left 
to  his  surprise. 

He  finished  his  work  for  the  day,  and  went  home,  re 
maining  there  until  night  came  on.  Then  he  went  back 
to  the  Works,  having  first  told  Christian  of  his  purpose. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Works,"  he  said.  "  I  may  be  there 
all  night.  Don't  wait  for  me,  or  feel  anxious." 


A  FOOTSTEP.  319 

When  the  great  building  loomed  up  before  him  in  tho 
dark,  his  mind  recalled  instantly  the  night  he  had  entered 
it  before,  attracted  by  the  light  in  the  window.  There 
was  no  light  about  it  now  but  that  shut  in  the  lantern  he 
carried.  The  immensity  and  dead  stillness  would  have 
been  a  trying  thing  for  many  a  man  to  encounter,  but  as 
he  relocked  the  door  and  made  his  way  to  his  den,  he 
thought  of  them  only  from  one  point  of  view. 

"  It  is  the  silence  of  the  grave,"  he  said.  "  A  man  can 
concentrate  himself  upon  his  work  as  if  there  was  not  a 
human  breath  stirring  within  a  mile  of  him." 

Somehow,  even  his  room  wore  a  look  which  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  silence  of  night — a  look  he  felt  he  had  not 
seen  before.  He  marked  it  with  a  vague  sense  of  mys 
tery  when  he  set  his  lantern  down  upon  the  table,  turn 
ing  the  light  upon  the  spot  on  which  his  work  would 
stand. 

Then  he  took  down  the  case  and  opened  it  and  removed 
the  model. 

"It  will  not  be  forgotten  again,"  he  thought  aloud. 
"  If  it  is  to  be  finished,  it  will  be  finished  here." 

Half  the  night  passed  before  he  returned  home.  When 
he  did  so  he  went  to  his  room  and  slept  heavily  until  day 
light.  He  had  never  slept  as  he  slept  in  these  nights, — 
heavy  dreamless  sleep,  from  which,  at  first,  he  used  to 
awaken  with  a  start  and  a  perfectly  blank  sense  of  loss 
and  dread,  but  which  became,  at  last,  unbroken. 

Night  after  night  found  him  at  his  labor.  It  grew 
upon  him ;  he  longed  for  it  through  the  day ;  he  could 
not  have  broken  from  it  if  he  would. 

Once,  as  he  sat  at  his  table,  he  fancied  that  he  heard  a 
lock  click  and  afterward  a  stealthy  footstep.  It  was  a 


320  "HAWORTW8." 

sound  so  faint  and  indistinct  that  his  disbelief  in  its  re« 
ality  was  immediate ;  but  he  got  up,  taking  his  lantern 
with  him,  and  went  out  to  look  at  the  entrance  passage. 
It  was  empty  and  dark,  and  the  door  was  shut  and  locked 
as  he  had  left  it.  He  went  back  to  his  work  little  dis 
turbed.  He  had  not  really  expected  to  find  the  traces 
of  any  presence  in  the  place,  but  he  had  felt  it  best  to 
make  the  matter  safe. 

Perhaps  the  fact  that  once  or  twice  on  other  nights  the 
same  light,  indefinite  sound  fell  upon  his  ear  again,  made 
him  feel  rather  more  secure  than  otherwise.  Having  ex 
amined  the  place  again  and  with  the  same  result,  it 
troubled  him  no  more.  He  set  it  down  to  some  ordinary 
material  cause. 

After  his  first  visit  Haworth  came  into  his  room  often. 
Why  he  came  Murdoch  did  not  understand  very  clearly. 
He  did  not  come  to  talk ;  sometimes  he  scarcely  spoke  at 
all.  He  was  moody  and  abstracted.  He  went  about  the 
place  wearing  a  hard  and  reckless  look,  utterly  unlike 
any  roughness  and  hardness  he  had  shown  before.  The 
hands  who  had  cared  the  least  for  his  not  altogether  ill- 
natured  tempests  in  days  gone  by  shrank  or  were  restive 
before  him  now.  He  drove  all  before  him  or  passed 
through  the  rooms  sullenly.  It  was  plain  to  see  that  he 
was  not  the  man  he  had  been — that  he  had  even  lost 
strength,  and  was  suddenly  worn  and  broken,  though 
neither  flesh  nor  color  had  failed  him. 

Among  those  who  had  made  a  lion  of  him  he  was  more 
popular  than  ever.  The  fact  that  he  had  held  out  against 
ill  luck  when  so  many  had  gone  down,  was  constantly 
quoted.  The  strikes  which  had  kept  up  an  uneven  but 
prolonged  struggle  had  been  the  ruin  of  many  a  manu 
facturer  who  had  thought  he  could  battle  any  storm. 


A  FOOTSTEP.  321 

"Haworth's"  had  held  its  own  and  weathered  the 
worst. 

This  was  what  the  county  potentates  were  fond  of  say 
ing  upon  all  occasions, — particularly  when  they  wanted 
Ilaworth  to  dine  with  them  at  their  houses.  He  used  to 
accept  their  invitations  and  then  go  and  sit  at  their  din 
ner-tables  with  a  sardonic  face.  His  humor,  it  was  re 
marked  with  some  regret,  was  often  of  a  sardonic  kind. 
Occasionally  he  laughed  at  the  wrong  time,  and  his  jokes 
were  not  always  easy  to  smile  under.  It  was  also  re 
marked  that  Mr.  Ffrench  scarcely  seemed  comfortable 
upon  these  festive  occasions.  Of  late  he  had  not  been  in 
the  enjoyment  of  good  health.  He  explained  that  he 
suffered  from  nervous  headaches  and  depression.  His 
refined,  well-molded  face  had  become  rather  thin  and 
fatigued-looking.  He  had  lost  his  effusive  eloquence. 
He  often  sat  silent  and  started  nervously  when  spoken 
to,  but  he  did  not  eschew  society  at  all,  always  going  out 
upon  any  state  occasion  when  his  partner  was  to  be  a  fea 
ture  of  the  feast.  Once  upon  such  an  occasion  he  had 
said  privately  and  with  some  plaintiveness  to  Haworth : 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  go  to-night,  my  dear  fellow.  I 
really  don't  feel  quite  equal  to  it." 

"  Blast  you ! "  said  Ilaworth,  dispensing  with  social 
codes.  "  You'll  go  whether  you're  up  to  it  or  not.  We'll 
keep  it  up  to  the  end.  It'll  be  over  soon  enough." 

He  evinced  interest  in  the  model,  in  his  visits  to  the 
work-room,  which  seemed  a  little  singular  to  Murdoch, 
lie  asked  questions  about  it,  and  more  than  once  re 
peated  his  caution  concerning  its  being  "  kept  close." 

"  I've  got  it  into  my  head  that  you'll  finish  it  some  of 
these  days,"  he  said  once,  "  if  naught  happens  to  it  or 
you." 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

FINISHED. 

ONE  night,  Murdoch,  on  leaving  the  house,  said  to 
Christian : 

"  Doirt  expect  me  until  morning.  I  may  not  be  back 
until  then.  I  think  I  shall  work  all  night." 

o 

She  did  not  ask  him  why.  For  several  days  she  had 
seen  that  a  singular  mood  was  upon  him,  that  he  was  rest 
less.  Sometimes,  when  he  met  her  eye  unexpectedly,  he 
started  and  colored  and  turned  away,  as  if  he  was  a  little 
afraid.  She  stood  upon  the  step  and  watched  him  until 
he  disappeared  in  the  darkness,  and  then  shut  the  door 
and  went  in  to  his  mother. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  he  entered  his  work 
room,  and  shut  himself  in  and  brought  out  the  model. 

He  sat  looking  at  it  a  moment,  and  then  stretched  forth 
his  hand  to  touch  it.  Suddenly  he  drew  it  back  and  let 
it  fall  heavily  upon  the  table.  "  Good  Heavens ! "  he 
cried.  "  Did  he  ever  feel  so  near  as  this,  and  then  fail  ? " 
The  shock  was  almost  unbearable.  "  Are  there  to  be  two 
of  us  ?  "  he  said.  "  Was  not  one  enough  ?  "  But  he  put 
forth  his  hand  again  a  minute  later,  though  his  heart  beat 
like  a  trip-hammer.  "  It  rests  with  me  to  prove  it,"  he 
said — "  with  me  !  " 

As  he  worked,  the  dead  silence  about  him  seemed  to 
become  more  intense.  His  own  breathing  was  a  distinct 


YOU'VE   BEEN    IIEKE   ALL   NIGHT. 


FINISHED. 

sound,  light  as  it  was  ;  the  accidental  dropping  of  a  tool 
upon  the  table  was  a  jar  upon  him  ;  the  tolling  of  the 
church  bell  at  midnight  was  unbearable.  He  even  took 
out  his  watch  and  stopped  it.  But  at  length  he  knew 
neither  sound  nor  stillness  ;  he  forgot  both. 

It  had  been  a  dark  night,  but  the  morning  rose  bright 
and  clear.  The  sun,  streaming  in  at  the  one  wrindow,  fell 
upon  the  model,  pushed  far  back  upon  the  table,  and  on 
Murdoch  himself,  sitting  with  his  forehead  resting  upon 
his  hands.  He  had  been  sitting  thus  some  time — he  did 
not  know  how  long.  He  had  laid  his  last  tool  down  be 
fore  the  first  streak  of  pink  had  struck  across  the  gray 
sky.  He  was  tired  and  chill  with  the  morning  air,  but  he 
had  not  thought  of  going  home  yet,  or  even  quite  recog 
nized  that  the  night  was  past.  His  lantern  still  burned 
beside  him.  He  was  roused  at  last  by  a  sound  in  the 
outer  room.  The  gates  had  not  been  unlocked  nor  the 
bell  rung,  but  some  one  had  come  in.  The  next  moment 
Ilaworth  opened  the  door  and  stood  in  the  threshold, 
looking  in  on  him. 

"  You've  been  here  all  night,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Murdoch.  He  turned  a  little  and 
pointed  to  the  model,  speaking  slowly,  as  if  he  were  but 
half  awake. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  it  is  complete." 

He  said  it  with  so  little  appearance  of  emotion  or  ex 
ultation  that  Haworth  was  dumbfounded.  He  laid  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder  and  shook  him  a  little. 

"  Wake  up,  man  !  "  he  said.     "  You're  dazed.'' 

"No,"  he  answered,  "not  dazed.  I've  had  time  to 
think  it  over.  It  has  been  finished  two  or  three  hours." 
All  at  once  he  burst  into  a  laugh.  "  I  did  not  think,"  he 

S 

said,  "  that  it  would  be  you  I  should  tell  the  news  to  first." 


324  "  HAWORTIPS:'1 

Haworth  sat  down  near  him  with  a  dogged  face. 

"  Nay,"  he  replied,  "  nor  me  either." 

They  eat  and  stared  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in  gi- 
lence.  Then  Murdoch  drew  a  long,  wearied  breath. 

"  Bnt  it  is  done,"  he  said,  "  nevertheless." 

After  that  he  got  up  and  began  to  "make  his  prepara 
tions  to  go  home  while  Haworth  sat  and  watched  him. 

"  I  shall  want  to  go  away,"  he  said.  "  When  I  come 
back  I  shall  know  what  the  result  is  to  be." 

"  Start  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Haworth.  "  And 
keep  close.  By  the  time  you  come  back " 

He  stopped  and  left  his  chair,  and  the  bell  which  called 
the  hands  to  work  began  its  hurried  clanging.  At  the 
door  he  paused. 

"  When  shall  you  take  it  away  ? "   he  asked. 

"  To-night,"  Murdoch  answered.     "  After  dark." 

At  home  he  only  told  them  one  thing — that  in  the 
morning  he  was  going  to  London  and  did  not  know  when 
he  should  return.  He  did  not  go  to  the  Works  during 
the  day,  but  remained  at  home  trying  to  rest.  But  he 
could  not  sleep  and  the  day  seemed  to  lag  heavily.  In 
the  afternoon  he  left  the  sofa  on  which  he  had  lain 
through  the  morning  and  went  out.  He  walked  slowly 
through  the  town  and  at  last  turned  down  the  lane  which 
led  to  the  Briarley's  cottage.  He  felt  as  if  there  would 
be  a  sort  of  relief  to  the  tenseness  of  his  mood  in  a  brief 
interview  with  Janey.  When  he  went  into  the  house, 
Mr.  Briarley  was  seated  in  Mrs.  Dixon's  chair  unscientifi 
cally  balancing  his  latest-born  upon  his  knee.  His  aspect 
was  grave  and  absorbed  ;  he  was  heated  and  disheveled 
with  violent  exertion  ;  the  knot  of  his  blue  cotton  necker 
chief  had  twisted  itself  under  his  right  ear  in  a  painfully 
suggestive  manner.  Under  some  stress  of  circumstances 


FINISHED.  325 

he  had  been  suddenly  pressed  into  service,  and  his  mode 
of  placating  his  offspring  was  at  once  unprofessional  and 
productive  of  frantic  excitement. 

But  the  moment  he  caught  sight  of  Murdoch  an  alarm 
ing  change  came  upon  him.  His  eyes  opened  to  their 
fullest  extent,  his  jaw  fell  and  the  color  died  out  of  his 
face.  He  rose  hurriedly,  dropped  the  youngest  Briarley 
into  his  chair  and  darted  out  of  the  house,  in  such  trepi 
dation  that  his  feet  slipped  under  him  when  he  reached 
the  lower  step,  where  he  fell  with  a  loud  clatter  of  wooden 
clogs,  scrambling  up  again  with  haste  and  difficulty  and 
disappearing  at  once. 

Attracted  by  the  disturbance,  Janey  darted  in  from  the 
inner  room  barely  in  time  to  rescue  the  deserted  young 
Briarley. 

"Wheer's  he  gone?"  she  demanded,  signifying  her 
father.  "  I  towd  her  he  war  na  fit  to  be  trusted !  Wheer's 
he  gone  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Murdoch  answered.  "  I  think  he  ran 
away  because  he  saw  me.  What  is  the  trouble  ? " 

"  Nay,  dunnot  ax  me  !  We  canna  mak'  him  out,  ney- 
ther  mother  nor  me.  He's  been  settin'  i'  th'  house  fur 
three  days,  as  if  he  wur  feart  to  stir  out — settin'  by  th' 
fire  an'  shakin'  his  yed,  an'  cry  in'  ivvery  now  and  then. 
An'  here's  her  i'  th'  back  room  to  wait  on.  A  noice  toime 
this  is  fur  him  to  pick  to  go  off  in.  He  mowt  ha'  waited 
till  she  wur  done  wi'." 

As  conversation  naturally  could  not  flourish  under  these 
circumstances,  after  a  few  minutes  Murdoch  took  his, 
leave. 

It  seemed  that  he  had  not  yet  done  with  Mr,  Briarley. 
Passing  through  the  gate,  he  caught  sight  of  a  forlorn  fig 
ure  seated  upon  the  road-side  about  twenty  yards  before 


326  "HAWORTWS." 

him,  wearing  a  fustian  jacket  and  a  blue  neck-cloth  knotted 
under  the  ear.  As  he  approached,  Mr.  Briarley  looked 
up,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  him  in  a  despairing  gaze. 
He  did  not  remove  his  glance  at  all,  in  fact,  until  Murdoch 
was  within  ten  feet  of  him,  when,  for  some  entirely  inex 
plicable  reason,  he  rose  hurriedly  and  passed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  road,  and  at  a  distance  of  some  yards  ahead 
sat  down,  and  stared  wildly  at  him  again.  This  singular 
course  he  pursued  until  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the 
lane,  where  he  sat  and  watched  Murdoch  out  of  sight. 

"  I  thowt,"  he  said,  breathing  with  extreme  shortness, 
"  as  he  ha'  done  fur  me.  It  wur  a  wonder  as  he  did  na. 
If  I'd  coom  nigh  him  or  he'd  coom  nigh  me,  they'd  ha' 
swore  it  wur  me  as  did  it  an's  gone  accordin',  if  luck  went 
ag'in  'em." 

Then  a  sudden  panic  seemed  to  seize  him.  He  pulled 
off  his  cap,  and,  holding  it  in  both  hands,  stared  into  it  as 
if  in  desperate  protest  against  fate.  A  large  tear  fell  into 
the  crown,  and  then  another  and  another.  "  I  canna  help 
it,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  and  sepulchral  whisper.  "  Look 
out !  Look  out !  " 

And  then,  probably  feeling  that  even  in  this  he  might 
be  committing  himself  fatally,  he  got  up,  glanced  fear 
fully  about  him,  and  scuttled  away. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

"IF  AUGHT' s  FOR  ME,  REMEMBER  IT." 

BEFORE  he  left  the  house  at  night,  Murdoch  had  a  brief 
interview  with  his  mother. 

"  I  am  going  to  London  as  he  went,"  he  said, — "  on  the 
same  errand.  The  end  may  be  what  it  was  before.  I 
have  felt  very  sure — but  he  was  sure  too." 

"  Yes,"  the  woman  answered,  "  he  was  very  sure." 
"  I  don't  ask  you  to  trust  it — or  me,"  he  said.  "  He 
gave  a  life  to  it.  I  have  not  given  a  year,  and  he  was  the 
better  man,  a  thousand-fold.  I,"  he  said,  with  a  shadow 
falling  on  his  face,  "  have  not  proved  myself  as  he  did. 
He  never  faltered  from  the  first." 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  Would  to  God  he  had !  " 
But  when  he  went,  she  followed  him  to  the  door  and 
said  the  words  she  had  refused  him  when  he  had  first  told 
her  he  had  taken  the  burden  upon  his  shoulders. 

"  God  speed  you  !  "  she  said.     "  I  will  try  to  believe." 
His  plan  was  to  go  to  his  room,  pack  his  case  securely, 
and  then  carry  it  with  him  to  the  station  in  time  to  meet 
the  late  train  he  had  decided  on  taking. 

He  let  himself  into  the  Works  as  usual,  and  found  his 
way  along  the  passage  in  the  darkness,  though  he  carried 
his  lantern.  He  knew  his  way  so  well  that  he  did  not 
need  it  there.  But  when  he  reached  Haworth's  room  and 
put  out  his  hand  to  open  the  door,  he  stopped.  His  touch 


328  "HAWORTH'8." 

met  no  resistance,  for  the  door  was  wide  open.  The  dis 
covery  was  so  sharp  a  shock  to  him  that  for  a  few  seconds 
he  remained  motionless.  But  he  recovered  himself  in  a 
second  or  so  more.  It  might  have  been  the  result  of  care 
lessness,  after  all ;  so  he  turned  on  his  light  and  went  into 
his  cell  and  began  his  task.  It  did  not  take  him  long. 
When  he  had  finished,  the  wooden  case  was  simply  a 
solid  square  brown  parcel  which  might  have  contained 
anything.  He  glanced  at  his  watch  and  sat  down  a  min 
ute  or  so. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  going  too  early,"  he  said.  And  so  he 
waited  a  little,  thinking  mechanically  of  the  silence  inside 
and  the  darkness  out,  and  of  the  journey  which  lay  before 
him.  But  at  last  he  got  up  again  and  took  his  burden  by 
the  cord  he  had  fastened  about  it. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  it  is  time." 

At  the  very  moment  the  words  left  his  lips  there  was  a 
sound  outside  the  door,  and  a  rush  upon  him  ;  he  was 
seized  by  the  throat,  flung  backward  into  the  chair  he  had 
left,  and  held  there.  He  made  no  outcry.  His  first 
thought  when  he  found  himself  clutched  and  overpowered 
was  an  incongruous  one  of  Briarley  sitting  on  the  road 
side  and  looking  up  at  him  in  panic-stricken  appeal.  He 
understood  in  a  flash  what  his  terror  had  meant. 

The  fellow  who  held  him  by  the  collar — there  were 
three  of  them,  and  one  was  Reddy — shook  him  roughly. 

"  "VVheer  is  it  ? "  he  said.  "  You  know  whatten  we've 
coom  for,  my  lad." 

Murdoch  was  conscious  of  a  little  chill  which  passed 
over  him,  but  otherwise  he  could  only  wonder  at  his  own 
lack  of  excitement.  No  better  place  to  finish  a  man  than 
such  a  one  as  this  at  dead  of  night,  and  there  was  not  one 
of  the  three  who  had  not  evil  in  his  eye ;  but  he  spoke 


11  IF  AUOHrS  FOR  ME,  REMEMBER  IT."          329 

without  a  tremor  in  his  voice, — with  the  calmness  of  being 
utterly  without  stay  or  help. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  know,"  he  said.  "  You  came  to  me 
for  it  before.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ? " 

"  Smash  it  to  h ,"  said  one,  concisely,  "  an'  thee 

too." 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  by  the  half  light  of 
a  lantern  in  a  place  so  deadly  still.  Murdoch  felt  the  lit 
tle  chill  again,  but  he  remembered  that  after  all  he  had 
one  slender  chance  if  he  could  make  them  listen. 

"  You  are  making  a  blunder,"  he  began. 

Reddy  stopped  him  by  addressing  his  comrades. 

u  What  art  tha  stondin'  hearkenin'  to  him  fur  ? "  he  de 
manded.  "  Smack  him  i'  th'  mouth  an1  stop  him." 

Murdoch  gave  a  lurch  forward  which  it  gave  his  captor 
some  trouble  to  restrain.  He  turned  dangerously  white 
and  his  eye  blazed. 

"  If  you  do,  you  devil,"  he  panted,  "  I'll  murder 
you." 

"  Wheer  is  th'  thing  we  coom  fur  ?  "  said  the  first  man. 
And  then  he  caught  sight  of  the  package,  which  had  fall 
en  upon  the  floor. 

"  Happen  it's  i'  theer,"  he  suggested.  "  Oppen  it, 
chaps." 

Then  all  at  once  Murdoch's  calmness  was  gone.  He 
shook  in  their  grasp. 

"  For  God's  sake  !  "  he  cried,  "  don't  touch  it !  Don't 
do  it  a  harm  !  It's  a  mistake.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
your  trade.  It  would  be  no  hurt  to  you  if  it  were  known 
to  the  whole  world.  For  God^s  sake,  believe  me !  " 

"  We've  heerd  a  different  mak'  o'  tale  fro'  that,"  said 
Reddy,  laughing. 

"  It's  a  lie— a  lie  !     Who  told  it  ? " 


330  "  HAWORTH' S." 

"Jem  Haworth,"  he  was  answered.  "Jem  Haworth, 
as  it  wur  made  fur." 

He  began  to  struggle  with  all  his  strength.  He  cried 
out  aloud  and  sprang  up  and  broke  loose  and  fought  with 
the  force  of  madness. 

"  You  shall  pay  for  it,"  he  shrieked,  and  three  to  one 
as  they  were,  he  held  them  for  a  moment  at  bay. 

"  Gi'  him  th'  knob-stick !  "  cried  one.  "  At  him  wi> 
it!" 

It  was  Reddy  who  aimed  the  blow  at  him, — a  blow  that 
would  have  laid  him  a  dead  man  among  them, — but  it 
never  fell,  for  he  sprang  forward  with  a  mighty  effort 
and  struck  the  bludgeon  upward,  and  as  it  fell  with  a 
crash  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  they  heard,  even 
above  the  tumult  of  their  struggle,  a  rush  of  heavy  feet,  a 
voice  every  man  among  them  knew,  and  the  sound  they 
most  dreaded — the  sharp  report  of  a  pistol. 

"  It's  Haworth !  "  they  shouted.  "  Haworth !  "  And 
they  made  a  dash  at  the  door  in  a  body,  stumbling  over 
one  another,  striking  and  cursing,  and  the  scoundrel  who 
first  got  through  and  away  was  counted  a  lucky  man. 

Murdoch  took  a  step  forward  and  fell — so  close  to  the 
model  that  his  helpless  hand  touched  it  as  it  lay. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  returned  to  consciousness. 
His  sudden  loss  of  strength  had  only  been  a  sort  of  climax 
body  and  mind  had  reached  together.  When  he  opened 
his  eyes  again,  his  first  thought  was  a  wonder  at  himself 
and  a  vague  effort  to  comprehend  his  weakness.  He 
looked  up  at  Haworth,  who  bent  over  him. 

"  Lie  still  a  bit,  lad,"  he  heard  him  say.  "  Lie  and  rest 
thee." 

He  no  sooner  heard  his  voice  than  he  forgot  his  weak 


IT   WAS   KEDDY    \YiIO    AIMED    THE   BLOW. 


"  IF  AVOHrS  FOR  ME,  REMEMBER  IT."          331 

wonder  at  himself  in  a  stronger  wonder  at  him.  He  was 
ashen  pale  and  a  tremor  shook  him  as  he  spoke. 

"  Lie  still  and  rest  thee,"  he  repeated,  and  he  touched 
his  head  with  an  approach  to  gentleness. 

"  They  thought  there  was  more  than  me,"  he  said. 
"And  they're  not  fond  of  powder  and  lead.  They're 
better  used  to  knobsticks  and  vitriol  in  the  dark." 

"  They  meant  to  murder  me,"  said  Murdoch. 

"Aye,  make  sure  o'  that.  They  weren't  for  play. 
They've  had  their  minds  on  this  for  a  month  or  two.  If 
I'd  been  a  minute  later " 

He  did  not  finish.  A  queer  spasm  of  the  throat  stopped 
him. 

He  rose  the  next  instant  and  struck  a  match  and  turned 
the  gas  on  to  full  blaze. 

"  Let's  have  light,"  he  said.  "  Theer's  a  look  about  th' 
place  I  can't  stand." 

His  eyes  were  blood-shot,  his  face  looked  gray  and 
deeply  lined  and  his  lips  were  parched.  There  was  a  new 
haggardness  upon  him  and  he  was  conscious  of  it  arid 
tried  to  bear  it  down  with  his  old  bravado. 

"They'll  not  come  back,"  he  said.  "They've  had 
enough  for  to-night.  If  they'd  known  I  was  alone  they'd 
have  made  a  stand  for  it.  They  think  they  were  in  luck 
to  get  off." 

He  came  back  and  sat  down. 

"  They  laid  their  plans  better  than  I  thought,"  he  added. 
"  They  got  over  me  for  once,  devil  take  'em.  How  art 
tha  now,  lad  ?  " 

Murdoch  made  the  effort  to  rise  and  succeeded,  though 
he  was  not  very  strong  upon  his  feet,  and  sank  into  a 
chair  feeling  a  little  irritated  at  his  own  weakness. 

"  Giddy,"  he  answered,   "  and   a  trifle  faint.      It's  a 


332  "HAWORTH'8." 

queer  business.  I  went  down  as  if  I'd  been  shot.  I  have 
au  hour  and  a  half  to  steady  myself  before  the  next  train 
comes  in.  Let  me  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  You'll  go  to-night  ?  "  said  Haworth. 

"  There's  a  stronger  reason  than  ever  that  I  should  go," 
he  answered.  "  Let  me  get  it  out  of  the  way  and  safe, 
for  heaven's  sake  ! '' 

Ila worth  squared  his  arms  upon  the  table  and  leaned 
on  them. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  an  hour  and  a  half  to  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it." 

He  said  it  almost  with  a  swagger,  and  yet  his  voice  was 
hoarse,  and  his  coolness  a  miserable  pretense. 

"  Ask  me,"  he  said,  "  how  1  came  here  ! " 

And  not  waiting  for  a  reply  even  while  Murdoch  gazed 
at  him  bewildered,  he  answered  the  question  himself. 

"  I  come,"  he  said,  "  for  a  good  reason, — for  the  same 
reason  that's  brought  me  here  every  night  you've  been  at 
work." 

Murdoch  repeated  his  last  words  mechanically.  He 
was  not  quite  sure  the  man  was  himself. 

"  Every  night  I've  been  at  work  ? " 

"  Aye,  every  one  on  'em !  There's  not  been  a  night 
I've  not  been  nigh  you  and  ready." 

A  memory  flashed  across  Murdoch's  mind  with  start 
ling  force. 

"  It  was  you  I  heard  come  in  ?  "  he  cried.  "  It  was  not 
fancy." 

"  Aye,  it  was  me." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  between  them  in  which 
Murdoch  thought  with  feverish  rapidity. 

"  It  was  you,"  he  said  with  some  bitterness  at  last, — • 
"  you  who  set  the  plot  on  foot  ? " 


"IP  AUGHT'S  FOR  ME,  REMEMBER  IT"          333 

"  Aye,  it  was  me." 

"  I  oould  have  done  the  job  I  wanted  to  do  in  a  quicker 
way,"  he  went  on,  after  a  second's  pause,  "  but  that  wasn't 
my  humor.  I'd  a  mind  to  keep  out  of  it  myself,  and  I 
knew  how  to  set  the  chaps  on  as  would  do  it  in  their  own 
way." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  it '  ?  "  cried  Murdoch. 
"  Were  you  devil  enough  to  mean  to  have  my  blood  ? " 

"  Aye, — while  I  was  in  the  humor, — that  and  worse." 

Murdoch  sprang  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room.  His 
strength  had  come  back  to  him  with  the  fierce  sense  of 
repulsion  which  seized  him. 

"  It's  a  blacker  world  than  I  thought,"  he  said.  "  We 
were  friends  once — friends  !  " 

"  So  we  were,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  You  were  the  first 
chap  I  ever  made  friends  with,  and  you'll  be  the  last. 
It's  brought  no  good  to  either  of  us." 

"  It  might,"  returned  Murdoch,  "  if " 

"  Let  me  finish  my  tale,"  he  said,  even  doggedly.  "  I 
said  to  myself  before  I  came  you  should  hear  it.  I  swore 
I'd  stop  at  naught,  and  I  kept  my  word.  I  sowed  a  seed 
here  and  there,  and  th'  soil  was  just  right  for  it.  They 
were  in  the  mood  to  hearken  to  aught,  and  they  hearkened. 
But  there  came  a  time  when  I  found  out  that  things  were 
worse  with  you  than  with  me,  and  had  gone  harder  with 
you.  If  you'd  won  where  I  lost  it  would  have  been  dif 
ferent,  but  you  lost  most  of  the  two — you'd  the  most  to 
lose — and  I  changed  my  mind." 

He  stopped  a  second  and  looked  at  Murdoch,  who  had 
come  back  and  thrown  himself  into  his  chair  again. 

"  I've  said  many  a  time  that  you  were  a  queer  chap,"  he 
went  on,  as  if  half  dubious  of  himself .  <£  You  are  a  queer 
chap.  At  th'  start  you  got  a  hold  on  me,  and  when  I 


334  "HAWORTH'8." 

changed  my  mind  you  got  a  hold  on  me  again.  I  swore 
I'd  undo  what  I'd  done,  if  I  could.  I  knew  if  the  thing 
was  finished  and  you  got  i  way  with  it  they'd  soon  find 
out  it  was  naught  they  need  fret  about,  so  I  swore  to  see 
you  safe  through.  I  gave  you  the  keys  to  come  here  to 
work,  and  every  night  I  came  and  waited  until  you'd 
done  and  gone  away.  I  brought  my  pistols  with  me  and 
kept  a  sharp  lookout.  To-night  I  was  late  and  they'd 
laid  their  plans  and  got  here  before  me.  There's  th'  be 
ginning  and  there's  th'  end." 

"  You  saved  my  life,"  said  Murdoch.  "  Let  me  re 
member  that." 

"  I  changed  my  mind  and  swore  to  undo  what  I'd  done. 
There's  naught  for  me  in  that,  rny  lad,  and  plenty  to  go 
agen  me." 

After  a  little  he  pushed  his  chair  back. 

"  The  time's  not  up,"  he  said.  "  I've  made  short  work 
of  it.  Pick  up  thy  traps  and  we'll  go  over  th'  place 
together  and  see  that  it's  safe." 

He  led  the  way,  carrying  the  lantern,  and  Murdoch 
followed  him.  They  went  from  one  end  of  the  place  to 
the  other  and  found  all  quiet ;  the  bars  of  a  small  lower 
window  had  been  filed  and  wrenched  out  of  place,  Mr. 
Reddy  and  his  friends  having  made  their  entrance 
through  it. 

"  They've  been  on  the  lookout  many  a  night  before 
they  made  up  their  minds,"  said  Ha  worth.  "  And  they 
chose  the  right  place  to  try." 

Afterward  they  went  out  together,  locking  the  door  and 
the  iron  gates  behind  them,  and  went  down  in  company 
to  the  dark  little  station  with  its  dim,  twinkling 
lights. 

Naturally   they   did   not   talk  very  freely.     Now  and 


"IF  AUGHT' S  FOR  ME,  REMEMBER  IT."          335 

then  there  was  a  blank  silence  of  many  minutes  between 
them. 

But  at  last  the  train  thundered  its  way  in  and  stopped, 
and  there  was  a  feeble  bustle  to  and  fro  among  the 
sleepy  officials  and  an  opening  and  shutting  and  locking 
of  doors. 

When  Murdoch  got  into  his  empty  compartment,  Ha- 
worth  stood  at  its  step.  At  the  very  last  he  spoke  in  a 
strange  hurry : 

"  When  you  come  back/'  he  said,  "  when  you  come 
back — perhaps " 

There  was  a  porter  passing  with  a  lantern,  which 
struck  upon  his  face  and  showed  it  plainly.  He  shrank 
back  a  moment  as  if  he  feared  the  light ;  but  when  it  was 
gone  he  drew  near  again  and  spoke  through  the  window. 

"  If  there's  aught  in  what's  gone  by  that's  for  me,"  he 
said,  "  remember  it." 

And  with  a  gesture  of  farewell,  he  turned  away  and 
was  gone. 


CHAPTER  L. 

AN   AFTER-DINNEK   SPEECH. 

AT  dinner  the  next  evening  Mr.  Ffrench  had  a  story 
to  tell.  It  was  the  rather  exciting  story  of  the  comple 
tion  of  Murdoch's  labor,  the  night  attack  and  his  sudden 
departure.  Exciting  as  it  was,  however,  Mr.  Ffrench  did 
not  relate  it  in  his  most  vivid  manner.  His  nervous  ail 
ments  had  increased  of  late,  and  he  was  not  in  a  condi 
tion  to  be  vivacious  and  dramatic.  The  incident  came 
from  him  rather  tamely,  upon  the  whole. 

"  If  it  is  the  success  he  thinks  it  is,"  he  terminated,  "  he 
is  a  made  man — and  he  is  not  the  fellow  to  deceive  him 
self.  Well,"  he  said,  rather  drearily,  "I  have  said  it 
would  be  so." 

As  Haworth  had  foreseen,  Saint  Meran  appeared  upon 
the  scene  again.  He  was  present  when  the  story  was  told, 
and  was  much  interested  in  it  as  a  dramatic  incident 
bringing  the  peculiarities  of  the  manufacturing  class  of 
Broxton  into  strong  play. 

"  If  they  had  murdered  him,"  he  remarked  with  criti 
cal  niceness,  "  it  would  have  been  the  most  tragic  of  trag 
edies.  On  the  very  eve  of  his  life's  success.  A  tragedy 
indeed !  And  it  is  not  bad  either  that  it  should  have 
been  his  master  who  saved  him." 

"  Why  do  you  say  master  ? "  said  Miss  Ffrench,  coldly. 

"  Pardon  me.     I  thought " 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  SPEECH.  337 

Mr.  Ffrench  interposed  in  some  hurry. 

"  Ob,  he  has  always  been  such  an  uncommon  young  fel 
low  that  we  have  scarcely  thought  of  him  as  a  servant. 
He  has  not  been  exactly  a  servant  in  fact." 

"  Ah  ! "  replied  Saint  Meran.     "  I  ask  pardon  again." 

He  had  been  not  a  little  bewildered  at  the  change 
he  found  in  the  household.  Mr.  Ffrench  no  longer  ex 
pounded  his  views  at  length  with  refined  vigor.  He  fre 
quently  excused  himself  from  the  family  circle  on  plea  of 
severe  indisposition,  and  at  other  times  he  sat  in  singular 
and  depressing  silence.  He  was  evidently  ill ;  there  were 
lines  upon  his  forehead  and  circles  about  his  eyes;  he 
had  a  perturbed  air  and  started  without  any  apparent 
cause.  A  change  showed  itself  in  Miss  Ffrench  also, — so 
subtle  as  not  to  be  easily  described.  It  was  a  change 
which  was  not  pallor  nor  fragility.  It  was  an  alteration 
which  baffled  him  and  yet  forced  him  to  recognize  its 
presence  constantly,  and  to  endeavor  to  comprehend  it. 
Ffrench  himself  had  seen  it  and  pondered  over  it  in  se 
cret.  When  he  sat  in  his  private  room  at  the  Bank,  be 
wildered  and  terrified  even  by  the  mere  effort  to  think 
and  face  the  future,  his  burden  was  not  a  little  increased 
by  his  remembrance  of  his  hours  at  home.  More  than  all 
the  rest  he  shrank  from  the  day  of  reckoning  with  his 
daughter.  He  had  confronted  Haworth  and  borne  the 
worst  of  his  wrath.  The  account  of  himself  which  he 
must  render  to  her  would  be  the  most  scathing  ordeal  of 
his  life. 

"  Some  women  would  pity  me,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  but  she  will  not." 

Truth  to  tell,  he  looked  forward  pathetically  to  the  pos 
sibility  that  hereafter  their  paths  might  lie  apart.  Fate 
had  saved  him  one  fearful  responsibility,  at  least.  Her 
15 


338  "HAWORTWS" 

private  fortune  had  been  beyond  his  reach  and  she  would 
still  be  a  rich  woman  even  when  the  worst  came.  He 
could  live  on  very  little,  he  told  himself,  and  there  was 
always  some  hope  for  a  man  of  resources.  He  still  be 
lieved  somewhat,  though  rather  vaguely,  in  his  re 
sources. 

A  few  days  after  Murdoch's  departure  there  came  to 
Broxton,  on  a  visit  of  inspection,  a  dignitary  of  great 
magnitude — a  political  economist,  a  Member  of  Parlia 
ment.  Above  all  other  things  he  was  absorbed  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  manufacturing  districts.  He  had  done 
the  trades-unions  the  honor  of  weighing  their  cause  and 
reasoning  with  them ;  he  had  parleyed  with  the  strikers 
and  held  meetings  with  the  masters.  He  had  heard  of 
Haworth  and  his  extraordinary  stand  against  the  out 
break,  and  was  curious  to  see  him. 

He  came  as  the  guest  of  one  of  the  county  families, 
who  regarded  Haworth  and  his  success  a  subject  worth 
enlarging  upon.  He  was  taken  to  the  Works  and  pre 
sented  to  their  master.  Haworth  met  him  with  little 
enthusiasm.  He  showed  him  over  the  place,  but  main 
tained  his  taciturnity.  He  was  not  even  moved  to  any 
exhibition  of  gratitude  on  being  told  that  he  had  done 
wonders. 

The  finale  of  the  visit  was  a  stately  dinner  given  by 
the  county  family.  Haworth  and  the  member  were  the 
features  of  the  festivity,  and  speeches  were  made  which 
took  a  congratulatory  and  even  a  laudatory  turn. 

"  I  can't  go,"  Ffrench  cried,  piteously,  when  Haworth 
came  to  his  room  at  the  Bank  with  the  news.  He  turned 
quite  white  and  sank  back  into  his  chair.  "  It  is  too  much 
to  ask.  I — no.  I  am  not  strong  enough." 

He  felt  himself  as  good  as  a  dead  man  when  Haworth 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  SPEECH.  339 

turned  about  and  strode  up  to  him,  livid,  and  opening  and 
shutting  his  hands. 

"  Blast  you  ?"  he  hissed  through  his  teeth.  "  You  did 
it !  You  !  And  you  shall  pay  for  it  as  long  as  I'm  nigh 
to  make  you ! " 

Saint  Meran  was  among  the  guests,  and  Miss  Ffrench, 
whose  wonderful  beauty  attracted  the  dignitary's  eye  at 
once.  Years  after  he  remembered  and  spoke  of  her.  He 
glanced  toward  her  when  he  rose  to  make  his  after-dinner 
speech,  and  caught  her  eye,  and  was  somewhat  confused 
by  it.  But  he  was  very  eloquent.  The  master  of  "  Ha- 
worth's  "  was  his  inspiration  and  text.  His  resources,  his 
strength  of  will,  his  giant  enterprises,  his  readiness  and 
daring  at  the  moment  when  all  was  at  hazard — these  were 
matters,  indeed,  for  eloquence. 

Ha  worth  sat  leaning  forward  upon  the  table.  He 
played  with  his  wine  glass,  turning  it  round  and  round 
and  not  spilling  a  3rop  of  the  ruby  liquid.  Sometimes  he 
glanced  at  the  orator  with  a  smile  which  no  one  exactly 
understood,  of tener  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  full 
wine-glass. 

When  at  length  the  speaker  sat  down  with  a  swift  final 
glance  at  Rachel  Ffrench,  there  was  a  silence  of  several 
seconds.  Everybody  felt  that  a  reply  was  needed.  Ha- 
worth  turned  his  wine-glass  two  or  three  times  without 
raising  his  eyes,  but  at  last,  j  ust  as  the  pause  was  becoming 
embarrassing,  he  looked  across  the  table  at  Ffrench,  who 
sat  opposite. 

"  I'm  not  a  speech-making  chap  myself,"  he  said.  "  My 
partner  is.  He'll  say  my  say  for  me." 

He  gave  Ffrench  a  nod.  That  gentleman  had  been 
pale  and  distracted  through  all  the  courses ;  now  he  bo- 
came  paler  than  ever.  He  hesitated,  glanced  around  him. 


340  "HAWORTH' 8" 

at  the  waiting  guest  and  at  Haworth  (who  nodded  again), 
and  then  rose. 

It  was  something  unusual  that  Mr.  Ff  rench  should  hang 
back  and  show  himself  unready.  He  began  his  speech  of 
thanks  in  his  partner's  name  falteringly  and  as  if  at  a  loss 
for  the  commonest  forms  of  expression ;  he  replied  to  the 
member's  compliments  with  hesitation ;  he  spoke  of  the 
difficulties  they  had  encountered  with  a  visibly  strong 
effort,  he  touched  upon  their  success  and  triumph  with 
such  singular  lack  of  exultation  that  those  who  listened 
began  to  exchange  looks  of  questioning;  and  suddenly,  in 
the  midst  of  his  wanderings  and  struggles  at  recovering 
himself,  he  broke  off  and  begged  leave  to  sit  down. 

"  I  am  ill,"  he  said.  "  I  have — been — indisposed  for 
some  time.  I  must  crave  your  pardon,  and — and  my  part 
ner's  for  my  inability  to  say  what — what  I  would  wish." 

He  sat  down  amid  many  expressions  of  sympathy.  The 
plea  accounted  for  his  unusual  demeanor,  it  was  thought. 
The  member  himself  sought  an  interview  with  him,  in 
which  he  expressed  his  regret  and  his  sense  of  the  fact  that 
nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  the  result  of  so  long  bear 
ing  a  weight  of  responsibility  should  be  a  strain  upon  the 
nervous  system  and  a  consequent  loss  of  physical  strength. 

"  You  must  care  for  yourself,  my  dear  sir,"  lie  added. 
"  Your  firm — nay,  the  country — cannot  afford  to  lose  an 
element  like  yourself  at  such  a  crisis." 

On  the  morning  following,  the  member  left  Broxton. 
On  his  way  to  the  station  he  was  moved  to  pay  a  final  visit 
to  Haworth  at  the  Works. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said,  with  much  warmth  on 
shaking  hands  with  him.  "  I  congratulate  England  upon 
your  determination  and  indomitable  courage,  and  upon 
your  wonderful  success." 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  SPEECH.  341 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  Murdoch  during 
his  absence.  The  story  of  the  attack  and  of  Haworth's 
repulse  of  the  attacking  party  became  a  popular  incident. 
Mr.  Reddy  and  his  companions  disappeared  from  the 
scene  with  promptness.  Much  interest  was  manifested  in 
the  ultimate  success  of  the  model,  which  had  previously 
been  regarded  .with  a  mingling  of  indifference  and  disfavor 
as  not  "  loike  to  coom  to  owt."  The  results  of  its  agree 
ably  disappointing  people  by  "  coming  to  owt "  were  esti 
mated  at  nothing  short  of  a  million  per  annum. 

"Th'  chap'll  roll  i' brass,"  it  was  said.  "  Ha  worth'  11 
be  nowheer.  Happen  th'  lad'll  coom  back  an'  set  up  a 
Works  agen  him.  An'  he  coom  here  nowt  but  a  workin' 
chap  a  few  year  sin' !  " 

The  two  women  in  the  little  house  in  the  narrow  street 
heard  the  story  of  the  attack  only  through  report.  They 
had  no  letters. 

"  I  won't  write,"  Murdoch  had  said.  "  You.  shall  not 
be  troubled  by  prospects  that  might  end  in  nothing. 
You  will  hear  nothing  from  me  till  I  come  and  tell  you 
with  my  own  lips  that  I  have  won  or  failed." 

In  the  days  of  waiting  Christian  proved  her  strength. 
She  would  not  let  her  belief  be  beaten  or  weighed  down. 
She  clung  to  it  in  spite  of  what  she  saw  hour  by  hour  in 
the  face  of  the  woman  who  was  her  companion. 

"  I  have  lived  through  it  before." 

It  was  not  put  into  words,  but  she  read  it  in  her  eyes 
and  believed  in  spite  of  it. 

He  had  been  away  two  weeks,  and  he  returned  as  his 
father  had  done,  at  night. 

The  women  were  sitting  together  in  the  little  inner 
room.  They  were  not  talking  or  working,  though  each 


34:2  "HAWORTH'S." 

had  work  in  her  hands.  It  was  Christian  who  heard  him 
first.  She  threw  down  her  work  and  stood  up. 

"  He  is  here,"  she  cried.     "  He  is  coming  up  the  step." 

She  was  out  in  the  narrow  entry  and  had-  thrown  the 
door  open  before  he  had  time  to  open  it  with  his  key. 

The  light  fell  upon  his  dark  pale  face  and  showed  a 
strange  excitement  in  it.  He  was  disheveled  and  travel- 
worn,  but  his  eyes  were  bright.  His  first  words  were 
enough. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  he  said,  in  an  exultant  voice.  "  It  is 
a  success.  Where  is  my  mother  ? " 

He  had  taken  her  hand  as  if  without  knowing  what  he 
did  and  fairly  dragged  her  into  the  room.  His  mother 
had  risen  and  stood  waiting. 

"  It  is  a  success,"  he  cried  out  to  her.  "  It  is  what  lie 
meant  it  to  be — I  have  finished  his  work!" 

She  turned  from  him  to  the  girl,  uttering  a  low  cry  of 
appeal. 

"  Christian  ! "  she  said.     "  Christian  ! " 

The  girl  went  to  her  and  made  her  sit  down,  and  knelt 
before  her,  clasping  her  arms  about  her  waist,  and  uplift 
ing  her  glowing  young  face.  At  the  moment  her  beauty 
became  such  a  splendor  that  Murdoch  himself  saw  it  with 
wonder. 

"  It  is  finished,"  she  said.  "  And  it  is  he  who  has  fin 
ished  it !  Is  not  that  enough  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  but— but " 

And  the  words  died  upon  her  lips,  and  she  sat  looking 
before  her  into  vacancy,  and  trembling. 

Murdoch  threw  himself  on  the  sofa  and  lay  there,  his 
hands  clasped  above  his  head. 

"  I  shall  be  a  rich  man,"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself,  "  a 
rich  man — and  it  is  nothing— but  it  is  done." 


CHAPTER  LI. 

"  TH'  ON'Y  ONE  AS  is  NA  A  FOO'  ! " 

THE  next  day  all  Broxton  knew  the  story. 

"Well,  he  wur  na  so  soft  after  aw,"  more  than  one  ex 
cellent  matron  remarked. 

Mr.  Ffrench  heard  the  news  from  his  valet  in  the 
morning.  He  had  been  very  unwell  for  several  days. 
He  had  eaten  nothing  and  slept  very  little  and  had  been 
obliged  to  call  in  his  physician,  who  pronounced  his  case 
the  result  of  too  great  mental  strain,  and  prescribed  rest. 
He  came  down  to  breakfast  with  an  unwholesome  face 
and  trifled  with  his  food  without  eating  it.  He  glanced 
furtively  at  Kachel  again  and  again. 

"  I  shall  not  go  to  the  Bank  to-day,"  he  said  timorously 
at  last.  "  I  am  worse  than  ever.  I  shall  remain  at  home 
and  try  to  write  letters  and  rest.  Are — are  you  going 
out?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  Oh."  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  said,  "  I  saw  Briarley 
yesterday,  and  he  said  Mrs.  Dixon  was  very  ill.  You 
sometimes  go  there,  I  believe  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Suppose — suppose  you  call  this  morning  to  inquire. 
It  looks  well  to  show  a — a  sort  of  interest  in  them.  You 
might  take  something  nourishing  with  you." 

He  flinched  when  she  raised  her  eyes  and  let  them  rest 


344  "HAWORTETS." 

a  moment  upon  him.  Her  look  was  strongly  suggestive 
of  the  fact  that  she  could  better  rely  upon  the  result  of 
her  own  circulations  concerning  him  than  upon  the  truth 
of  his  replies,  if  she  deigned  to  ask  him  questions. 

"I  thought,"  he  faltered,  " that  it  would  look  well  to 
evince  some  interest,  as  the  man  has  been  in  our  employ, 
and  you  have  had  the  woman  about  the  house.'' 

"  Certainly,"  she  replied,  "  it  would  be  well  enough. 
I  will  go." 

After  breakfast  she  ordered  the  carriage  and  went  to 
her  room  and  made  her  toilette  with  some  care.  Why  she 
did  so  was  best  known  to  herself.  Nothing  is  more  cer 
tain  than  that  she  scarcely  expected  to  produce  a  great 
effect  upon  Granny  Dixon.  The  truth  was,  she  would 
have  made  her  visit  to  the  Briarley's  in  any  case,  and  was 
not  in  the  least  moved  thereto  by  her  father's  unexpected 
anxiety. 

But  when  she  reached  the  cottage  and  entered  it,  she 
began  immediately  to  repent  having  come.  A  neighbor 
woman  sat  nursing  the  youngest  Briarley;  there  was  a 
peculiar  hush  upon  the  house  and  the  windows  were  dark 
ened.  She  drew  back  with  a  feeling  of  alarm  and  annoy 
ance. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  demanded  impatiently  of 
the  woman.  "  Why  have  you  darkened  the  room  ? " 

"  Th'  owd  lass  is  deein,"  was  the  business-like  answer, 
"  an'  they're  ha'in'  some  trouble  wi'  her.  She  conna  even 
dee  loike  other  foak." 

She  drew  back,  her  annoyance  becoming  violent  repul 
sion.  She  turned  pale,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  vio 
lently.  She  knew  nothing  of  death,  and  was  not  fearless 
of  it.  Her  inveterate  calm  failed  her  in  thus  being 
brought  near  it. 


"  T&  ON'  Y  ONE  AS  IS  NA  A  FOO '  /  "  345 

"  I  will  go  away,"  she  said. 

And  she  would  have  gone,  but  at  that  moment  there 
arose  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  inner  room — Mrs.  Briarley's 
and  J aney's,  and  above  theirs  Granny  Dixon's,  brokenly, 
and  yet  with  what  seemed  terrible  loudness  in  the  hush 
of  the  house. 

"  Bring  her  i'  here  !  "  she  was  saying.  "  Bring  her  i' 
here  an'  mak'  her — do  it !  " 

And  then  out  came  Mrs.  Briarley,  looking  fagged  and 
harassed. 

"  I  ax  thy  pardon,  Miss,"  she  said,  "  but  she  says  she 
wants  thee.  She  says  she  wants  thee  to  be  a  witness  to 
summat." 

"  I  will  not  go,"  she  replied.  "  I — I  am  going  away. 
I — never  saw  any  one  before — in  that  condition." 

But  the  terrible  voice  raised  itself  again,  and,  despite 
her  terror  and  anger,  held  and  controlled  her. 

"  I  see  her !  "  it  cried.  "  Mak'  her  coom  in.  I  knowed 
her  gran'feyther — when  I  wur  a  lass — seventy  year  ago !  " 

"  She  will  na  harm  thee,"  said  Mrs.  Briarley.  And 
partly  because  of  a  dread  fascination,  and  partly  because 
the  two  women  regarded  her  with  such  amazement,  she 
found  herself  forced  to  give  way  and  enter. 

It  was  a  small  room,  and  dark  and  low.  The  bed  was 
a  huge  four-poster  which  had  belonged  to  Granny  Dixon 
herself  in  her  young  days.  The  large-flowered  patterns 
of  its  chintz  hangings  were  faded  with  many  washings. 

Of  the  woman  lying  upon  it  there  was  little  left  but 
skin  and  bone.  She  seemed  all  eyes  and  voice — eyes 
which  stared  and  shone  in  the  gloom,  and  voice  which 
broke  upon  the  silence  with  an  awesome  power. 

"  She's  been  speaking  awmost  i'  a  whisper  till  to-da}r," 
explained  Mrs.  Briarley,  under  her  breath, 
15* 


346  "HAWORTH'S." 

onct  th'  change  set  in,  an'  it  coom  back  as  loud  as 
ivver." 

She  lifted  her  hands,  beckoning  with  crooked  fingers. 

"  Coom  tha  here,"  she  commanded. 

Eachel  Ffrench  went  to  her  slowly.  She  had  no  color 
left,  and  all  her  hauteur  could  not  steady  her  voice. 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  she  asked,  standing  close  beside 
the  bed. 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  silence,  in  which  the  large 
eyes  wandered  from  the  border  of  her  rich  dress  to  the 
crown  of  her  hair.  Then  Granny  Dixon  spoke  out : 

"  Wheer'st  flower  ? "  she  cried.  "  Tha'st  getten  it  on 
thee  again.  I  con  smell  it." 

It  was  true  that  she  wore  it  at  her  throat  as  she  had 
done  before.  A  panic  of  disgust  took  possession  of  her 
as  she  recollected  it.  It  was  as  if  they  two  were  somehow 
bound  together  by  it.  She  caught  at  it  with  tremulous 
fingers,  and  would  have  flung  it  away,  but  it  fell  from  her 
uncertain  clasp  upon  the  bed,  and  she  would  not  have 
touched  it  for  worlds. 

"  Gi'  it  to  me  !  "  commanded  Granny  Dixon. 

"  Pick  it  up  for  her,"  she  said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Briarley, 
and  it  was  done,  and  the  shrivelled  fingers  held  it  and  the 
old  eye  devoured  it. 

"  He  used  to  wear  'em  i'  his  button-hole,"  proclaimed 
the  Voice,  "an'  he  wur  a  han'some  chap — seventy  year 
ago." 

"  Did  you  send  for  me  to  tell  me  that?"  demanded  Ra 
chel  Ffrench. 

Granny  Dixon  turned  on  her  pile  of  pillows. 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  "  an'  I'm— forgettin'." 

There  was  a  gasp  between  the  two  last  words,  as  if  sud 
denly  her  strength  was  failing  her. 


•*  TH>  ON* T  ONE  AS  IS  NA  A  F00\' "  347 

"  Get  thee  a  pen— an' — an'  write  summat,"  she  ordered. 

"Get  it  quickly,"  said  Rachel  Ffrench,  "and  let  me 
humor  her  and  go." 

She  noticed  the  little  gap  between  the  words  herself, 
and  the  next  instant  saw  a  faint  gray  pallor  spread  itself 
over  the  old  woman's  face. 

"  Get  the  pen  and  paper,"  she  repeated,  "  and  call  in 
the  woman." 

They  brought  her  the  pen  and  paper  and  called  the 
woman,  who  came  in  stolidly,  ready  for  any  emergency. 
Then  they  waited  for  commands,  but  for  several  seconds 
there  was  a  dead  pause,  and  Granny  Dixon  lay  back,  star 
ing  straight  before  her. 

"Quick!"  said  Rachel  Ffrench.  "What  do  you 
want  ? " 

Granny  Dixon  rose  by  a  great  effort  upright  from  her 
pillows.  She  pointed  to  Mrs.  Briarley  with  the  sharp, 
bony  fore-finger. 

"  1 — leave  it — aw — to  her"  she  proclaimed,  "  — ivvery 
penny !  She's  th'  ony  one  among  'em  as  is  na  a  foo' ! " 

And  then  she  fell  back,  and  panted  and  stared  again. 

Mrs.  Briarley  lifted  her  apron  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  She  means  th'  brass,"  she  wailed.  "  Eh !  Poor  owd 
tess,  who'd  ha'  thowt  it ! " 

"  Do  you  mean,"  asked  Rachel  Ffrench,  "  that  you  wish 
her  to  have  your  money  ? " 

A  nod  was  the  answer,  and  Mrs.  Briarley  shed  sympa 
thetic  tears  again.  Here  was  a  reward  for  her  labors  in 
deed. 

What  she  wrote  Miss  Ffrench  scarcely  knew.  In  the 
end  there  was  her  own  name  signed  below,  and  a  black, 
scrawling  mark  from  Granny  Dixon's  hand.  The  woman 
who  had  come  in  made  her  mark  also. 


348 

"Mak'  a  black  un,"  said  the  testatrix.  "Let's  ha'  it 
plain." 

Then,  turning  to  Rachel : 

"Does  ta  want  to  know  wheer  th'  money  come  fro'1 
Fro'  Will  Ffrench — fro'  him.  He  wur  one  o'  th'  gentry 
when  aw  wur  said  an'  done — an'  I  wur  a  han'some 
lass." 

When  it  was  done  they  all  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other.  Granny  Dixon  lay  back  upon  her  pillows,  drawing 
sharp  breaths.  She  was  looking  only  at  Rachel  Ffrench. 
She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  the  rest  of  them,  and 
what  she  had  been  doing.  All  that  was  left  of  the  Yoice 
was  a  loud,  halting  whisper. 

"  Wheer's  th'  flower  ? "  she  said.     "  I  conna  smell  it." 

It  was  in  her  hand. 

Rachel  Ffrench  drew  back. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Briarley.  "I  cannot  stay 
here." 

"He  used  to  wear  'em  i'  his  button-hole,"  she  heard, 
"  — seventy  year  ago — an'  she's  th'  very  moral  on  him." 
And  scarcely  knowing  how,  she  made  her  way  past  the 
women,  and  out  of  the  house  and  into  the  fresh  air  and 
sunshine. 

"  Drive  home,"  she  said  to  the  coachman, "  as  quickly  as 
possible." 

She  leaned  back  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage  shuddering. 
Suddenly  she  burst  into  wild  tears. 

But  there  were  no  traces  of  her  excitement  when  she 
reached  home.  She  descended  from  the  carriage  looking 
quite  herself,  and  after  dismissing  it  went  up  to  her  own 
room. 

About  half  an  hour  later  she  came  down  and  went  into 
the  library.  Her  father  was  not  there,  and  on  inquiring 


0JV' T  ONE  AS  18  NA  A  FOO'  !  "  349 

as  to  his  whereabouts  from  a  servant  passing  the  open  door, 
she  was  told  that  he  had  gone  out. 

He  had  been  writing  letters,  it  was  evident.  His  chair 
stood  before  his  desk,  and  there  was  an  addressed  envelope 
lying  upon  it. 

She  went  to  the  desk  and  glanced  at  it  without  any  spe 
cial  motive  for  doing  so.  It  was  addressed  to  herself. 
She  opened  and  read  it. 

"  My  dear  Rachel,"  it  ran.  "  In  all  probability  we  shall 
not  meet  again  for  some  time.  I  find  myself  utterly  un 
able  to  remain  to  meet  the  blow  which  must  inevitably 
fall  before  many  days  are  over.  The  anxiety  of  the  past 
year  has  made  me  a  coward.  I  ask  your  forgiveness  for 
what  you  may  call  my  desertion  of  you.  We  have  never 
relied  upon  each  other  much,  and  you  at  least  are  not  in 
cluded  in  my  ruin.  You  will  not  be  called  upon  to  share 
my  poverty.  You  had  better  return  to  Paris  at  oncec 
With  a  faint  hope  that  you  will  at  least  pity  me, 
I  remain, 

Your  affectionate  father, 

Gerard  Ffrench." 


CHAPTER  LII. 


ALMOST  at  the  same  moment,  Haworth  was  reading,  in 
his  room  at  the  Works,  the  letter  which  had  been  left  for 
himself. 

"  I  have  borne  as  much  as  I  can  bear,"  it  ended.  "  M} 
punishment  for  my  folly  is  that  I  am  a  ruined  man  and  a 
fugitive.  My  presence  upon  the  scene,  when  the  climax 
comes,  would  be  of  no  benefit  to  either  of  us.  Pardon 
me,  if  you  can,  for  the  wrong  I  have  unintentionally  done 
you.  My  ill-luck  was  sheerly  the  result  of  circumstances. 
Even  yet,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  were  great 
possibilities  in  my  plans.  But  you  will  not  believe  this 
and  I  will  say  110  more. 

In  haste, 

Ffrench." 

When  Rachel  Ffrench  finished  reading  her  note  she 
lighted  a  taper  and  held  the  paper  to  it  until  it  was  re 
duced  to  ashes,  and  afterward  turned  away  merely  a  shade 
paler  and  colder  than  before.  Haworth  having  finished 
the  reading  of  Ffrench's  letter,  sat  for  a  few  seconds  star 
ing  down  at  it  as  it  lay  before  him  on  the  table.  Then  he 
burst  into  a  brutal  laugh. 

After  that,  he  sat  stupefied — his  elbows  on  the  table, 
his  head  on  his  hands.  lie  did  not  move  for  half  an  hour. 


"  HA  WORTH'S  IS  DONE  WITH"  351 

The  Works  saw  very  little  of  him  during  the  day.  He 
remained  alone  in  his  room,  not  showing  himself,  and  one 
of  the  head  clerks,  coming  in  from  the  Bank  on  business, 
went  back  mystified,  and  remarked  in  confidence  to  a 
companion  that  "  things  had  a  queer  look." 

He  did  not  leave  the  Works  until  late,  and  then  went 
home.  All  through  the  evening  his  mother  watched  him 
in  her  old  tender  way.  She  tried  to  interest  him  with  her 
history  of  the  Briarley's  bereavement  and  unexpected 
good  fortune.  She  shed  tears  over  her  recital. 

"  So  old,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  Old  enough  to  have 
outlived  her  own, — an'  her  ways  a  little  hard,"  wiping 
her  eyes.  "  I'd  like  to  be  grieved  for  more,  Jem — though 
perhaps  it's  only  nat'ral  as  it  should  be  so.  She  hadn't 
no  son  to  miss  her  as  you'll  miss  me.  1  shouldn't  like  to 
be  the  last,  Jem." 

lie  had  been  listening  mechanically  and  he  started  and 
turned  to  her. 

"  The  last  ? "  he  said.     "  Aye,  it's  a  bit  hard." 

It  was  as  if  she  had  suggested  a  new  thought  to  him  of 
which  he  could  not  rid  himself  at  once.  He  kept  looking 
at  her,  his  eyes  wandering  over  her  frail  little  figure  and 
innocent  old  face,  restlessly. 

"But  I  haven't  no  fear,"  she  went  on,  "though  we 
never  know  what's  to  come.  But  you're  a  strong  man, 
and  there's  not  like  to  be  many  more  years  for  me — 
though  I'm  so  well  an'  happy." 

"  You  might  live  a  score,"  he  answered  in  an  abstracted 
way,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  her. 

"  Not  without  you,"  she  returned.  "  It's  you  that's  life 
to  me — an'  strength — an'  peace."  The  innocent  tears 
were  in  her  voice  again,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  with 
them. 


352  "HAWORTWS" 

He  lay  down  awhile  but  could  not  lie  still.  He  got  up 
and  came  and  stood  near  her  and  talked  and  then  moved 
here  and  there,  picking  up  one  thing  and  another,  holding 
them  idly  for  a  few  seconds  and  then  setting  them  aside. 
At  last  she  was  going  to  bed  and  came  to  bid  him  good 
night.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  caressingly. 

"  There's  never  been  aught  like  trouble  between  us 
two,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  a  quiet  enough  chap,  and  dif 
ferent  somehow — when  I've  been  nigh  you.  What  I've 
done,  I've  done  for  your  sake  and  for  the  best." 

In  the  morning  the  Works  were  closed,  the  doors  of  the 
Bank  remained  unopened,  and  the  news  spread  like  wild 
fire  from  house  to  house  and  from  street  to  street  and  be 
yond  the  limits  of  the  town — until  before  noon  it  was 
known  through  the  whole  country  side  that  Ffrench  had 
fled  and  Jem  Haworth  was  a  ruined  man. 

It  reached  the  public  ear  in  the  first  instance  in  the 
ordinary  commonplace  manner  through  the  individuals 
who  had  suddenly  descended  upon  the  place  to  take  pos 
session.  A  great  crowd  gathered  about  the  closed  gates 
and  murmured  and  stared  and  anathematized. 

"  Theer's  been  sum  mat  up  for  mony  a  month,"  said  one 
sage.  "  I've  seed  it.  He  wur  na  hissen,  wur  na  Ha 
worth." 

"  Nay,"  said  another,  "  that  he  wur  na.  Th'  chap  has 
na  been  o'  a  decent  spree  sin'  Ffrench  coom." 

"  Happen,"  added  a  third,  "  that  wur  what  started  him 
on  th'  road  downhill.  A  chap  is  na  good  fur  much  as  has 
na  reg'lar  habits." 

tk  Aye,  an'  Haworth  wur  reg'lar  enow  when  he  set  up. 
Good  Lord !  who'd  ha'  thowt  o'  that  chap  i'  bankrup'cy ! " 

At  the  outset  the  feeling  manifested  was  not  unamiable 


"HAWORTH'S  IS  DONE  WITH"  353 

to  Ilaworth,  but  it  was  not  very  long  before  the  closing  of 
the  Bank  dawned  upon  the  public  in  a  new  light.  It 
meant  loss  and  ruin.  The  first  man  who  roused  the 
tumult  was  a  burly  farmer  who  dashed  into  the  town  on  a 
sweating  horse,  spurring  it  as  he  rode  and  wearing  a  red 
and  furious  face.  He  left  his  horse  at  an  inn  and  came 
down  to  the  Bank,  booted  and  spurred  and  whip  in 
hand. 

"  Wheer's  Ff rench  ? "  he  shouted  to  the  smaller  crowd 
attracted  there,  and  whose  views  as  to  the  ultimate  settle 
ment  of  things  were  extremely  vague.  "  Wheer's  Ffrench 
an'  wheer's  Ilaworth  ?  " 

Half  a  dozen  voices  volunteered  information  regarding 
Ffrench,  but  no  one  knew  anything  of  Ilaworth.  He 
might  be  in  a  dozen  places,  but  no  one  had  yet  seen  him 
or  heard  of  his  whereabouts.  The  man  began  to  push  his 
way  toward  the  building,  swearing  hotly.  He  mounted 
the  steps  and  struck  violently  on  the  door  with  his  whip. 

"  I'll  mak'  him  hear  if  he's  shut  hissen  i'  here,"  he  cried. 
"  Th'  shifty  villain's  got  ivvery  shillin'  o'  brass  I've  been 
savin'  for  my  little  wench  for  th'  last  ten  year.  I'll  ha'  it 
back,  if  it's  to  be  gotten." 

"  Tha'lt  ne'er  see  it  again,"  shouted  a  voice  in  the  crowd. 
"  Tha'dst  better  ha'  stuck  to  th'  owd  stockin',  lad." 

Then  the  uproar  began.  One  luckless  depositor  after 
another  was  added  to  the  crowd.  They  might  easily  be 
known  among  the  rest  by  their  pale  faces.  Some  of  them 
were  stunned  into  silence,  but  the  greater  portion  of  them 
were  loud  and  passionate  in  their  outcry.  A  few  women 
hung  on  the  outskirts,  wiping  their  eyes  every  now  and 
then  with  their  aprons,  and  sometimes  bursting  into  audi 
ble  fits  of  weeping. 

"  I've  been  goin'  out  charrin'  for  four  year,"  said  one, 


354  «  HAWORTH' S." 

"  to  buy  silks  an'  satins  fur  th'  gentry.     Yo'  nivver  seed 
her  i'  owt  else." 

And  all  knew  whom  she  meant,  and  joined  in  shouts  of 
rage. 

Sometimes  it  was  Ffrench  against  whom  their  anger 
was  most  violent — Ffrench,  who  had  been  born  among 
them  a  gentleman,  and  who  should  have  been  gentleman 
enough  not  to  plunder  and  deceive  them.  And  again  it 
was  Haworth — Haworth,  who  had  lived  as  hard  as  any  of 
them  and  knew  what  their  poverty  was,  and  should  have 
done  fairly  by  them,  if  ever  man  should. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  Murdoch,  gathering  no 
news  of  Haworth  elsewhere,  went  to  his  house.  A  panic- 
stricken  servant  let  him  in  and  led  him  into  the  great 
room  where  he  had  spent  his  first  evening,  long  ago. 
Despite  its  splendor,  it  looked  empty  and  lifeless,  but 
when  he  entered,  there  rose  from  a  carved  and  satin  up 
holstered  chair  in  one  corner  a  little  old  figure  in  a  black 
dress — Jem  Ha  worth's  mother,  who  came  to  him  with  a 
white  but  calm  face. 

"  Sir,"  were  her  greeting  words,  "  where  is  he  ? " 

"  I  came  to  see  him,"  he  answered,  "  I  thought " 

"  No,"  she  interrupted,  "  he  is  not  here.  He  has  not 
been  here  since  morning." 

She  began  to  tremble,  but  she  shed  no  tears. 

"  There's  been  a  good  many  to  ask  for  him,"  she  went 
on.  "  Gentlemen,  an'  them  as  was  rough,  an'  didn't  mind 
me  bein'  a  woman  an'  old.  They  were  harder  than  you'd 
think,  an' — troubled  as  I've  been,  I  was  glad  he  was  not 
here  to  see  'em.  But  I'd  be  more  comfortable  if  I  could 
rightly  understand." 

"  1  can  only  tell  you  what  I  know,"  he  said.  "  It  isn't 
much.  I  have  only  gathered  it  from  people  on  the  streets." 


"  HA  WORTH'S  IS  DONE  WITH."  355 

He  led  her  back  to  her  chair,  and  did  not  loosen  his 
light  grasp  on  her  hand  while  he  told  her  the  story  as  he 
had  heard  it.  His  own  mood  was  so  subdued  that  it 
was  easier  than  he  had  thought  to  use  words  which  would 
lighten  the  first  weight  of  the  blow. 

She  asked  no  questions  after  his  explanation  was  over. 

"  He's  a  poor  man,"  she  said  at  last, — "  a  poor  man,  but 
— we  was  poor  before." 

Suddenly  her  tears  burst  forth. 

"  They've  said  hard  things  to  me  to-day,"  she  cried. 
"  I  don't  believe  'em,  Jem,  my  clear — now  less  than  ever." 

He  comforted  her  as  best  he  could.  He  could  easily 
understand  what  they  had  told  her,  how  much  of  the 
truth  and  how  much  of  angry  falsehood. 

"  When  he  comes  back,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  be  here 
to  meet  him.  Wherever  he  is,  an'  however  much  he's 
broke  down  with  trouble,  he  knows  that.  He'll  come 
here  to-night,  an'  I  shall  be  here." 

Before  he  went  away  he  asked  if  he  might  send  Chris 
tian  or  his  mother  to  her.  But  though  she  thanked  him, 
she  refused. 

"  I  know  how  good  they'd  be,"  she  said,  "  an'  what  a 
comfort  in  the  lonesomeness,  but  when  he  comes  he'll 
want  to  be  alone,  an'  a  unfamiliar  face  might  trouble 
him." 

But  he  did  not  come  back.  The  day  went  on,  and  the 
excitement  increased  and  waned  by  turns.  The  crowd 
grew  and  surged  about  the  Bank  and  shouted  itself 
hoarse,  and  would  have  broken  a  few  windows  if  it  had 
not  been  restrained  by  the  police  force,  who  appeared 
upon  the  field  ;  and  there  were  yells  for  Ha  worth  and  for 
Ffrench,  but  by  this  time  Mr.  Ffrench  had  reached  Rot 
terdam  and  Haworth  was — no  one  knew  where,  since  he 


356  «  HA  WORTH'S." 

had  not  been  seen  at  all.  And  when  at  length  dusk  fell 
upon  the  town,  the  crowd  had  dwindled  away  and  gone 
home  by  ones  and  twos,  and  in  Jem  Haworth's  house  sat 
his  mother,  watching  and  waiting,  and  straining  her  ears 
to  catch  every  passing  sound. 

She  had  kept  up  her  courage  bravely  through  the  first 
part  of  the  day,  but  the  strangers  who  came  one  after  the 
other,  arid  sometimes  even  two  or  three  together,  to  de 
mand  her  son  with  loud  words  and  denunciations  and 
even  threats,  were  a  sore  trial  to  her.  Some  of  them 
flung  their  evil  stories  at  her  without  remorse,  taking  it 
for  granted  that  they  were  nothing  new  to  her  ears,  and 
even  those  who  had  some  compunction  muttered  among 
themselves  and  hinted  angrily  at  what  the  others  spoke 
outright.  Her  strength  began  to  give  way,  and  she 
quailed  and  trembled  before  them,  but  she  never  let  their 
words  pass  without  a  desperate  effort  to  defend  her  boy. 
Then  they  stared  or  laughed  at  her,  or  went  away  in 
sullen  silence,  and  she  was  left  to  struggle  with  her  grief 
and  terror  alone  until  some  new  call  was  made  upon  her, 
and  she  must  bear  all  again.  When  the  twilight  came 
she  was  still  alone,  and  sat  in  the  darkened  room  battling 
against  a  dread  which  had  crept  slowly  upon  her.  Of 
all  those  who  had  come  none  had  known  where  he  was. 
They  did  not  know  in  the  town,  and  he  had  not  come 
back. 

"  He  might  go,"  she  whispered,  "  but  he'd  not  go  with 
out  me.  He's  been  true  and  fond  of  his  mother,  let  them 
say  what  they  will.  He'd  never  leave  me  here  alone." 

Her  thoughts  went  back  over  the  long  years  from  his 
birth  to  the  day  of  his  highest  success.  She  remembered 
how  he  had  fought  with  fate,  and  made  his  way  and  re 
fused  to  be  conquered.  She  thought  of  the  wealth  he 


"  HA  WORTH'S  IS  DONE  WITH."  357 

had  won,  the  power,  the  popularity,  and  of  his  boast  that 
he  had  never  been  beaten,  and  she  began  to  sob  in  the 
shadow  of  her  corner. 

"  He's  lost  it  all,"  she  cried.  "  An'  he  won  it  with  his 
own  hands  an'  worked  for  it  an'  bore  up  agen  a  world ! 
An'  it's  gone  !  " 

It  was  when  she  came  to  this  point  that  her  terror 
seized  on  her  as  it  had  never  done  before.  She  got  up, 
shaking  in  every  limb. 

"  I'll  go  to  him  myself,"  she  said.  "  Who  should  go  to 
him  but  his  mother  ?  Who  should  find  him  an'  be  a  help 
to  him  if  I  can't  ?  Jem — Jem,  my  dear,  it's  me  that's 
com  in'  to  you — me  !  " 

He  had  been  sitting  in  a  small  back  office  in  the  Bank 
all  through  the  day  when  they  had  been  calling  and 
searching  for  him.  He  had  got  in  early  and  locked  the 
door  and  waited,  knowing  well  enough  all  that  was  to 
come.  It  was  no  feeling  of  fear  that  made  him  keep  hid 
den  ;  he  had  done  with  fear — if,  indeed,  he  had  ever  felt 
it  in  his  life.  He  knew  what  he  was  going  to  do  and  he 
laid  his  plans  coolly.  He  was  to  stay  here  and  do  the 
work  that  lay  before  him  and  leave  things  as  straight  as 
he  could,  and  then  at  night  when  all  was  quiet  he  would 
make  his  way  out  in  the  dark  and  go  to  the  Works.  It 
was  only  a  fancy,  this,  of  going  to  the  Works,  but  he  clung 
to  it  persistently. 

He  had  never  been  clearer-headed  in  his  life — only, 
sometimes  as  he  was  making  a  calculation  or  writing  a 
letter  he  would  dash  down  his  work  and  fall  to  cursing. 

"There's  not  another  chap  in  England  that  had  done 
it,"  he  would  say.  "  And  it's  gone  ! — it's  gone ! — it's 
gone ! " 


358  "HAWORTH'S." 

Then  again  he  would  break  into  a  short  laugh,  remem- 
bering  the  M.  P.  and  his  speech  and  poor  Ffrench's 
stumbling,  overwhelmed  reply  to  it.  When  he  heard  the 
crowd  shouting  and  hooting  at  the  front,  he  went  into  a 
room  facing  the  street  and  watched  them  through  a  chink 
in  the  shutter.  He  heard  the  red-faced  farmer's  anathe 
mas,  and  swore  a  little  himself,  knowing  his  story  was 
true. 

"  Tha  shalt  have  all  Ha  worth  can  give,  chaps,"  he  mut 
tered,  "  an'  welcome.  He'll  tak'  nowt  with  him." 

He  laughed  again  but  suddenly  stopped,  and  walked 
back  into  the  little  office  silently,  and  waited  there. 

At  nightfall  he  went  out  of  a  back  door  and  slipped 
through  unfrequented  by-ways,  feeling  his  heart  beat  with 
heavy  thuds  as  he  went.  Nothing  stood  in  his  way  and  he 
got  in,  as  he  believed  he  should.  The  instant  his  foot 
crossed  the  threshold  a  change  came  upon  him.  He  for 
got  all  else  but  what  lay  before  him.  He  was  less  calm, 
and  in  some  little  hurry. 

He  reached  his  room  and  lighted  the  gas  dimly — only 
so  that  he  could  see  to  move  about.  Then  he  went  to  his 
desk  and  opened  it  and  took  out  one  of  a  pair  of  pistols, 
speaking  aloud  as  he  did  so. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  is  the  end  of  Jem  Haworth." 

He  knew  where  to  aim,  the  heavy  thuds  marked  the  spot 
for  him. 

"  I'll  count  three,"  he  said,  "  and  then " 

He  began  slowly,  steadily,  but  in  a  voice  that  fell  with 
a  hollow  sound  upon  the  dead  stillness. 

"  One,"  he  said.  "  Two ! "  and  his  hand  dropped  at  his 
side  with  his  weapon  in  it,  for  at  the  door  stood  his  mother. 
In  an  instant  she  had  fallen  upon  her  knees  and  dragged 
herself  toward  him  and  was  clinging  to  his  hand. 


"  HA  WORTH'S  IS  DONE  WITH"  359 

"  No — Jem  ! "  she  panted.  "  No,  not  that,  my  dear — 
God  forbid!" 

He  staggered  back  though  she  still  clung  to  him. 

"  How,"  he  faltered, — "  how  did  you  come  here  ? " 

"  The  Lord  led  me,"  she  sobbed.  "  He  put  it  into  my 
heart  and  showed  me  the  way,  an'  you  had  forgot  the 
door,  Jem — thank  God  !  " 

"  You — saw — what  I  was  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  What  you  was  goin'  to  do,  but  what  you'll  never  do, 
Jem,  an'  me  to  live  an'  suffer  when  it's  done — me  as 
you've  been  so  good  an'  such  a  comfort  to." 

In  the  dim  light  she  knelt  sobbing  at  his  feet. 

"  Let  me  sit  down,"  he  said.  "  And  sit  down  nigh  me. 
I've  summat  to  tell  you." 

But  though  he  sank  into  the  chair  she  would  not  get 
up,  but  kept  her  place  in  spite  of  him  and  went  on. 

"  To-day  there  have  been  black  tales  told  you  ? "  he 
said. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  "  but " 

"  They're  true,"  he  said,  "  th'  worst  on  'em." 

«  No— no!" 

He  stopped  her  by  going  on  monotonously  as  if  she 
had  not  spoken. 

"  Think  of  the  worst  you've  ever  known — you've  not 
known  much — and  then  say  to  yourself,  i  He's  worse  a 
hundred  times';  think  of  the  blackest  you  have  ever 
known  to  be  done,  and  then  say  to  yourself,  '  "What  he's 
done  's  blacker  yet.*  If  any  chap  has  told  you  I've  stood 
at  naught  until  there  was  next  to  naught  I'd  left  undone, 
he  spoke  true.  If  there  was  any  one  told  you  I  set  th'  de 
cent  ones  by  the  ears  and  laughed  'em  in  the  face,  he 
spoke  true.  If  any  o'  'em  said  I  was  a  dread  and  a  by 
word,  they  spoke  true,  too.  The  night  you  came  there 


360  "HAWORTH'S" 

were  men  and  women  in  th'  house  that  couldn't  look  you 
in  th'  face,  and  that  felt  shame  for  th'  first  time  in  their 
lives — mayhap — because  you  didn't  know  what  they  were, 
an'  took  'em  to  be  as  innocent  as  yourself.  There's  not  a 
sin  I  haven't  tasted,  nor  a  wrong  I've  not  done.  I've  had 
murder  in  my  mind,  an'  planned  it.  I've  been  mad  for  a 
woman  not  worth  even  what  Jem  Haworth  had  to  give 
her — and  I've  won  all  I'd  swore  I'd  win — an'  lost  it ! 
Now  tell  me  if  there's  aught  else  to  do  but  what  I've  set 
my  mind  on  ?  " 

She  clung  to  his  heavy  hand  as  she  had  not  clung  to  it 
before,  and  laid  her  withered  cheek  upon  it  and  kissed 
it.  Bruised  and  crushed  as  she  was  with  the  blows  he 
had  dealt,  she  would  not  let  it  go  free  yet.  Her  words 
came  from  her  lips  a  broken  cry,  with  piteous  sobs  be 
tween  them.  But  she  had  her  answer  ready. 

"  That  as  I've  thanked  God  for  all  my  life,"  she  said, 
"  He'll  surely  give  me  in  the  end.  He  couldn't  hold  it 
back — I've  so  believed  an'  been  grateful  to  Him.  If 
there  hadn't  been  in  you  what  would  make  a  good  man, 
my  dear,  I  couldn't  have  been  so  deceived  an'  so  happy. 
No — not  deceived — that  aint  the  word,  Jem — the  good 
was  there.  You've  lived  two  lives,  may  be, — but  one  was 
good,  thank  God !  You've  been  a  good  son  to  me. 
You've  never  hurt  me,  an'  it  was  your  love  as  hid  from 
me  the  wrong  you  did.  You  did  love  me,  Jem — I  won't 
give  that  up — never.  There's  nothing  you've  done  as 
can  stand  agen  that,  with  her  as  is  your  mother.  You 
loved  me  an'  was  my  own  son — my  boy  as  was  a  comfort 
an'  a  pride  to  me  from  the  first." 

He  watched  her  with  a  stunned  looJc. 

"  You  didn't  believe  them"  he  said  hoarsely,  " and  you 
don't  believe  me  f  " 


"HAWORTH'S  IS  DONE  WITH."  361 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  and  almost  smiled. 

"It  hasn't  come  home  to  me  yet,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
think  it  ever  will." 

He  looked  helplessly  toward  the  pistol  on  the  table. 
He  knew  it  was  all  over  and  he  should  not  use  it. 

"  What  must  I  do  ? "  he  said,  in  the  same  hoarse 
voice. 

"  Get  up,"  she  said,  "  an'  come  with  me.  I'm  a  old 
woman  but  my  heart's  strong,  an'  we've  been  poor  before. 
We'll  go  away  together  an'  leave  it  all  behind — all  the 
sorrow  of  it  an'  the  sin  an'  the  shame.  The  life  I  thought 
you  lived,  my  dear,  is  to  be  lived  yet.  Theer's  places 
where  they  wont  know  us  an'  where  we  can  begin  again. 
Get  up  and  come  with  me." 

He  scarcely  grasped  what  she  meant. 

"  With  you  !  "  he  repeated.  "  You  want  me  to  go 
now?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "for  Christ's  sake,  my  dear, 
now." 

He  began  to  see  the  meaning  and  possibility  of  her 
simple,  woman's  plan,  and  got  up,  ready  to  follow  her. 
And  then  he  found  that  the  want  of  food  and  the  Ion" 

o 

day  had  worn  upon  him  so  that  he  was  weak.  She  put 
her  arm  beneath  his  and  tried  to  support  him. 

"  Lean  on  me,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  I'm  stronger  than 
you  think." 

They  went  out,  leaving  the  empty  room  and  the  pistol 
on  the  table  and  the  dim  light  burning.  And  then  they 
had  locked  the  gate  and  were  outside  with  the  few  stars 
shining  above  and  the  great  black  Works  looming  up  be 
fore  them. 

He  stopped  a  moment  to  look  back  and  up  and  remem 
bered  the  key.  Suddenly  he  raised  it  in  his  hand  and 
16 


362  ".HAWORTH'8" 

flung  it  across  the  top  of  the  locked  gate ;  they  heard  it 
fall  inside  upon  the  pavement  with  a  clang. 

"  They'll  wonder  how  it  came  there,"  he  said.  "  They'll 
take  down  the  name  to-morrow.  '  Haworth's '  is  done 
with ! " 

He  turned  to  her  and  said,  "  Come."  His  voice  was  a 
little  stronger.  They  went  down  the  lane  together,  and 
were  lost  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  LIIL 


GRANNY  DIXON  was  interred  with  pomp  and  ceremony, 
or,  at  least,  with  what  appeared  pomp  and  ceremony  in 
the  eyes  of  the  lower  social  stratum  of  Broxton. 

Mrs.  Briarley's  idea  concerning  the  legacy  left  her  had 
been  of  the  vaguest.  Her  revered  relative  had  shrewdly 
kept  the  amount  of  her  possessions  strictly  to  herself,  if 
indeed,  she  knew  definitely  what  they  were.  She  had 
spent  but  little,  discreetly  living  upon  the  expectations  of 
her  kindred.  She  had  never  been  known  to  give  anybody 
anything,  and  had  dealt  out  the  money  to  be  expended 
upon  her  own  wants  with  a  close  hand.  Consequently, 
the  principal,  which  had  been  a  mystery  from  the  first, 
had  accumulated  in  an  agreeably  steady  manner. 

Between  her  periodic  tits  of  weeping  in  her  character 
of  sole  legatee,  Mrs.  Briarley  speculated  with  matronly 
prudence  upon  the  possibility  of  the  interest  even  amount 
ing  to  "  a  matter  o'  ten  or  fifteen  shillin'  a  week,"  and 
found  the  pangs  of  bereavement  materially  softened 
thereby.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  consolation  to  be  de 
rived  from  "  ten  or  fifteen  shillin'  a  week." 

"  I'll  ha'  a  bit  o'  good  black,"  she  said,  «  an'  we'll  gi' 
her  a  noice  buryinV  Only  a  severe  sense  of  duty  to  the 
deceased  rescued  her  from  tempering  her  mournfulness 
with  an  air  of  modest  cheer. 


364  "HAWORTH'3" 

The  "bit  o'  good  black"  was  the  first  investment. 
There  was  a  gown  remarkable  for  such  stiffness  of  lining 
and  a  tendency  to  crackle  upon  every  movement  of  the 
wearer,  and  there  was  a  shawl  of  great  weight  and  size, 
and  a  bonnet  which  was  a  marvel  of  unmitigated  affliction 
as  expressed  by  floral  decorations  of  black  crape  and 
beads. 

"  Have  thee  beads  i'  thy  bonnet  an'  a  pair  o'  black 
gloves,  mother,"  said  Janey,  "  an'  tha'lt  be  dressed  up  for 
onct  i'  thy  loife.  Eh !  but  I'd  loike  to  go  i'  mournin'  my- 
sen." 

"  Aye,  and  so  tha  should,  Jane  Ann,  if  I  could  afford 
it,"  replied  Mrs.  Briarley.  "  Theer's  nowt  loike  a  bit  o' 
black  fur  makkin  foak  look  dressed.  Theer's  summat 
cheerful  about  it,  i'  a  quoiet  way.  But  nivver  thee  moind, 
tha'lt  get  these  here  things  o'  moine  when  I'm  done  wi' 
'em,  an'  happen  tha'lt  ha'  growed  up  to  fit  th'  bonnet  by 
then." 

The  occasion  of  the  putting  on  of  the  festive  garb  was 
Mrs.  Briarley's  visit  to  Manchester  to  examine  into  the 
state  of  her  relative's  affairs,  and  such  was  the  effect  pro 
duced  upon  the  mind  of  Mr.  Briarley  by  the  air  of  high 
life  surrounding  him  that  he  retired  into  the  late  Mrs. 
Dixon's  chair  and  wept  copiously. 

"  I  nivver  thowt  to  see  thee  dressed  up  i'  so  much  lux- 
shury,  Sararann,"  he  said,  "an'  it  sets  me  back.  Tha 
does  na  look  loike  thysen.  Tha  looks  as  though  tha 
moight  be  one  o'  th'  nobility,  goin'  to  th'  Dnke  o'  Welling 
ton's  funeral  to  ride  behoind  th'  hearse.  I'm  not  worthy 
o'  thee.  I've  nivver  browt  thee  luck.  I'm  a  misforchnit 
cha " 

"  If  tha'd  shut  thy  mouth  an'  keep  it  shut  till  some  one 
axes  thee  to  oppen  it,  tha'd  do  well  enow,"  interposed 


"A  BIT  0'    GOOD  BLACK."  365 

Mrs.  Briarley,  with  a  manifest  weakening  toward  the  cul 
prit  even  in  the  midst  of  her  sternness.  "He  is  na  so 
bad,"  she  used  to  say,  leniently,  "  if  he  hadna  been  born 
a  foo'." 

But  this  recalled  to  Mr.  Briarley  such  memories  as  only 
plunged  him  into  deeper  depression. 

"  Theer  is  na  many  as  axes  me  to  oppen  it  i'  these  days, 
Sararann,"  he  said,  with  mournfulness.  "It  has  na 
oppen' t  to  mich  purpose  for  mony  a  day.  Even  th'  hos- 
pittyblest  on  'em  gets  toired  o'  a  chap  as  sees  nowt  but 
misforchin.  I  mowt  as  well  turn  teetotal  an'  git  th'  credit 
on  it.  Happen  theer's  a  bit  o'  pleasure  to  be  getten  out 
o'  staggerin'  through  th'  streets  wi'  a  banner  i'  th}  Whit 
week  possession.  I  dunnot  know.  I've  thowt  mysen  as 
happen  th'  tea  a  chap  has  to  drink  when  th'  excitement's 
ower,  an'  th'  speeches  ud  a' most  be  a  drorback  even  to 
that.  But  I  mun  say  I've  thowt  o'  tryin'." 

It  may  be  here  remarked  that  since  Mrs.  Briarley 'a 
sudden  accession  to  fortune,  Mr.  Briarley's  manner  had 
been  that  of  an  humble  and  sincere  penitent  whose  sym 
pathies  were  slowly  but  surely  verging  toward  the  noble 
cause  of  temperance.  He  had  repeatedly  deplored  his 
wanderings  from  the  path  of  sobriety  and  rectitude  with 
tearful  though  subdued  eloquence,  and  frequently  inti 
mated  a  mournful  inclination  to  "jine  th'  teetotals." 
Though,  strange  to  say,  the  effect  of  these  sincere  mani 
festations  had  not  been  such  as  to  restore  in  the  partner 
of  his  joys  and  sorrows  that  unlimited  confidence  which 
would  allow  of  her  confiding  to  his  care  the  small  amount 
he  had  once  or  twice  feebly  suggested  her  favoring  him 
with,  "  to  settle  wi' "  a  violent  and  not-to-be-pacified  cred 
itor  of  whom  he  stated  he  stood  in  bodily  fear. 


366  "HAWORTW8." 

"I  dunnot  know  as  I  ivver  seed  a  chap  as  were  as  des- 
p'rit  ower  a  little,"  he  remarked.  "  It  is  na  but  eighteen 
peace,  an'  he  ses  he'll  ha'  it,  or — or  see  about  it.  He 
stands  at  th'  street  corner — near  th'  '  Who'd  ha'  Thowt  it,' 
— an'  he  will  na  listen  to  owt.  He  says  a  chap  as  has  coom 
i'  to  property  can  pay  eighteen  pence.  He  wunnot  believe 
me,"  he  added  weakly,  "  when  1  say  as  it  is  na  me  as  has 
getten  th'  brass,  but  yo'.  It  mak's  him  worse  to  try  to 
mak'  him  understand.  He  will  na  believe  me,  an'  he's  a 
chap  as  would  na  stand  back  at  owt.  Theer  wur  a  man 
i'  Marfort  as  owed  him  thrippence  as  he — he  mashed  i'to 
a  jelly,  Sararann — an'  it  wur  fur  thrippence." 

"  Aye,"  said  Mrs.  Briarley,  dryly,  "  an'  theer's  no 
knowin'  what  he'd  do  fur  eighteen  pence.  Theer's  a  bad 
lookout  fur  tfiee,  sure  enow  !  " 

Mr.  Briarley  paused  and  surveyed  her  for  a  few  seconds 
in  painful  silence.  Then  he  looked  at  the  floor,  as  if  ap 
pealing  to  it  for  assistance,  but  even  here  he  met  with  in 
difference,  and  his  wounded  spirit  sought  relief  in  meek 
protestations. 

"  Tha  has  na  no  confydence  in  me,  Sararann,"  he  said. 
"Happen  th'  teetotals  would  na  ha'  neyther,  happen  they 
wouldn't,  an'  wheer's  th'  use  o'  a  chap  thinkin'  o'  jinin' 
?em  when  they  mowt  ha'  no  confydence  i'  him.  When  a 
mon's  fam'ly  mistrusts  him,  an'  has  na  no  belief  in  what 
he  says,  he  canna  help  feelin'  as  he  is  na  incouraged.  Tha 
is  na  incouragin',  Sararanu — theer's  wheer  it  is." 

But  when,  after  her  visit  to  Manchester,  Mrs.  Briarley 
returned,  even  Mr.  Briarley's  spirits  rose,  though  under 
stress  of  circumstances  and  in  private.  On  entering  the 
house  Mrs.  Briarley  sank  into  a  chair,  breathless  and 
overawed. 


"J.  BIT  0'   GOOD  BLACK."  367 

"  It's  two  pound  ten  a  week,  Janey  !  "  she  announced 
in  a  hysterical  voice.  "  An'  tha  can  ha'  thy  black  as  soon 
as  tha  wants  it."  And  Mrs.  Briarley  burst  at  once  into 
luxurious  weeping. 

Janey  dropped  on  to  a  stool,  rolled  her  arms  under  her 
apron  and  sat  gasping. 

"  Two  pound  ten  a  week ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  dunnot 
believe  it ! " 

But  she  was  persuaded  to  believe  by  means  of  sound 
proof  and  solid  argument,  and  even  the  proprieties  were 
scarcely  sufficient  to  tone  down  the  prevailing  emo 
tion. 

"  Theer's  a  good  deal  to  be  getten  wi'  two  pound  ten  a 
week,"  soliloquized  Mr.  Briarley  in  his  corner.  "I've 
heerd  o'  heads  o'  fam'lies  as  wur  'lowanced.  Summat 
could  be  done  wi'  three  shillin'  a  week.  Wi'  four  shillin' 
a  chap  could  be  i'  parydise." 

But  this,  be  it  observed,  was  merely  soliloquy,  timor 
ously  ventured  upon  in  the  temporary  security  afforded 
by  the  prevailing  excitement. 

At  the  funeral  the  whole  family  appeared  clothed  in 
new  garments  of  the  most  somber  description.  There 
were  three  black  coaches  and  Mrs.  Briarley  was  supported 
by  numerous  friends  who  alternately  cheered  and  con 
doled  with  her. 

u  Tha  mun  remember,"  they  said,  "  as  she's  better  off, 
poor  thing." 

Mr.  Briarley,  who  had  been  adorned  with  a  hat-band  of 
appalling  width  and  length,  and  had  been  furthermore 
inserted  into  a  pair  of  gloves  some  inches  too  long  in  the 
fingers,  overcame  his  emotion  at  this  juncture  sufficiently 
to  make  an  endeavor  to  ingratiate  himself.  He  withdrew 


368  "HAWORTH'S." 

his  handkerchief  from  his  face  and  addressed  Mrs.  Briar- 

ley. 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  "  tha  mun  bear  up,  Sararann.  She  is 
better  off — happen — an'  so  are  we." 

And  he  glanced  round  with  a  faint  smile  which,  how 
ever,  faded  out  with  singular  rapidity,  and  left  him  look 
ing  somewhat  aghast. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


THEY  found  the  key  lying  within  the  locked  gate,  and 
the  dim  light  burning  and  the  pistol  loaded  upon  the 
table.  The  great  house  stood  empty  with  all  its  grandeur 
intact.  The  servants  had  been  paid  their  wages  a  few 
days  before  the  crash  and  had  gone  away.  Nothing  had 
been  moved,  nothing  taken.  The  creditors,  who  found  to 
their  amazement  that  all  was  left  in  their  hands  to  dispose 
of  as  they  chose,  agreed  that  this  was  not  an  orthodox 
case  of  absconding.  Ilaworth  was  a  more  eccentric  fel 
low  than  they  had  thought. 

One  man  alone  understood.  This  was  Murdoch,  who, 
amid  all  the  buzz  of  excited  amazement,  said  nothing 
even  to  those  in  his  own  house.  When  he  heard  the 
story  of  the  pistol  and  the  key,  his  first  thought  was 
of  the  silence  of  the  great  place  at  night — the  deadness 
of  it  and  the  sense  of  desolation  it  brought.  It  was  a 
terrible  thing  to  remember  this  and  then  picture  a  ruined 
man  standing  alone  in  the  midst  of  it,  a  pistol  in  his 
hand  and  only  the  low  light  burning.  "We  did  not 
understand  each  other  very  well,"  he  said,  drearily,  "  but 
we  were  friends  in  our  way."  And  the  man's  farewell 
as  he  stood  at  the  carriage  door  in  the  shadow,  came  back 
to  him  again  and  again  like  an  echo  repeating  itself  :  "  If 
16* 


370  "HAWORTH'8" 

there's  aught  in  what's  gone  by  that's  for  me — remember 
it ! " 

Even  before  his  return  home,  Murdoch  had  made  up 
his  mind  as  to  what  his  course  for  the  next  few  years  was 
to  be.  His  future  was  assured  and  he  might  follow  his 
idlest  fancy.  But  his  fancies  were  not  idle.  They 
reached  forward  to  freedom  and  new  labors  when  the 
time  came.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  for  a  while,  at  least, 
and  he  was  to  return  to  America.  His  plan  was  to  travel 
with  a  purpose  in  view,  and  to  fill  his  life  with  work 
which  would  leave  him  little  leisure. 

Rachel  Ffrench  had  not  yet  left  her  father's  house. 
Saint  Meran  had  gone  away  with  some  suddenness  imme 
diately  after  the  dinner  party  at  which  the  political  econo 
mist  had  reigned.  Various  comments  had  been  made  on 
his  departure,  but  it  was  not  easy  to  arrive  at  anything 
like  a  definite  conclusion.  Miss  Ffrench  was  seen  no 
more  in  the  town.  Only  a  few  servants  remained  with 
her  in  the  house,  and  these  maintained  that  she  was  going 
to  Paris  to  her  father's  sister,  witli  whom  she  had  lived 
before  her  return  from  abroad.  They  added  that  there 
was  no  change  in  her  demeanor,  that  she  had  dismissed 
their  companions  without  any  explanation.  One,  it  is 
true,  thought  she  was  rather  thin — and  had  "  gone  off  her 
looks,"  but  this  version  was  not  popular  and  was  consid 
ered  out  of  accordance  with  the  ideal  of  her  character 
held  in  the  public  mind. 

"  She  does  na  care,"  it  was  said.  "  She  is  na  hurt.  Her 
brass  is  safe  enow,  an'  that's  aw  as  ud  be  loike  to  trouble 
her.  Pale  i'deed !  She's  too  high  an'  moighty." 

Murdoch  made  his  preparations  for  departure  as  rapidly 
as  possible.  They  were  rather  for  his  mother  and  Chris 
tian  than  for  himself.  They  were  to  leave  Broxton  also 


"IF   WILL  BE  TO    YOU."  371 

and  he  had  found  a  home  for  them  elsewhere.  One  day, 
as  they  sat  in  the  little  parlor,  he  rose  hurriedly  and  went 
to  Christian  and  took  both  her  hands. 

"  Try  to  be  happy,"  he  said.     "  Try  to  be  happy." 

He  spared  no  effort  to  make  the  future  bright  for  them. 
lie  gave  no  thought  to  himself,  his  every  hour  was  spent 
in  thinking  for  and  devising  new  comfort  for  them. 

But  at  last  all  was  ready,  and  there  was  but  one  day  left 
to  them. 

The  Works  were  still  closed,  and  would  not  be  re 
opened  for  some  weeks,  but  he  had  obtained  permission 
to  go  down  to  his  room,  and  remove  his  possessions  if  he 
chose.  So  on  the  morning  of  this  last  day  he  let  himself 
into  his  "  den,"  and  shut  himself  up  in  it.  Once  behind  the 
closed  doors,  he  began  a  strange  labor.  He  emptied  draw 
ers  and  desk,  and  burnt  every  scrap  of  paper  to  ashes — 
drawings,  letters,  all !  Then  he  destroyed  the  delicate  mod 
els  and  every  other  remnant  of  his  past  labors.  There  was 
not  so  much  as  an  envelope  or  blotting-pad  remaining. 
When  he  had  done  he  had  made  a  clean  sweep.  The  room 
was  empty,  cold,  and  bare.  He  sat  down,  at  last,  in  the 
midst  of  its  desolate  orderliness. 

At  that  moment  a  hand  was  laid  upon  the  door-handle 
and  the  door  opened ;  there  was  a  rustle  of  a  woman's 
dress — and  Rachel  Ffrench  stood  before  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  "  he  said, 
rising  slowly  to  meet  her. 

She  cast  one  glance  around  the  bare  room. 

"  It  is  true  !     You  are  going  away  !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  going.  I  have  done  my 
last  work  here  to-day." 

She  made  a  step  forward  and  stood  looking  at  him. 
She  spoke  under  her  breath. 


372  « HAWORTH'S." 

"  Every  one  is  going.     My  father  has  left  me — I " 

A  scarlet  spot  came  out  on  her  cheek,  but  she  did  not 
withdraw  her  eyes. 

"  Saint  Meran  has  gone  also." 

Gradually,  as  she  looked  at  him,  the  blood  receded  from 
her  face  and  left  it  like  a  mask  of  stone. 

"  I " — she  began,  in  a  sharp  whisper,  "  do  you  not  see  ? 
Do  you  not  understand !  Ah — my  God  ! " 

There  was  a  chair  near  her  and  she  fell  into  it,  burying 
her  face  in  the  crushed  velvet  of  her  mantle  as  she  bowed 
herself  upon  the  table  near. 

"Hush!"  she  cried,  "do  not  speak  to  me!  That  it 
should  be  I  who  stooped,  and  for  this — for  this !  That 
having  battled  against  my  folly  so  long,  I  should  have  let 
it  drag  me  to  the  dust  at  last !  " 

Her  passionate  sobs  suffocated  her.  She  could  not  check 
or  control  them.  Her  slender  fingers  writhed  in  their 
clasp  upon  each  other. 

"  I  never  thought  of  this,  God  knows ! "  he  said, 
hoarsely,  "  though  there  have  been  hours  when  I  could 
have  sworn  that  you  had  loved  me  once.  I  have  thought 
of  all  things,  but  never  of  this — never  that  you  could  re 
pent." 

She  lifted  her  head. 

"  That  1  should  repent !  "  she  cried.  "  Repent  1  Like 
this!" 

"  No,"  he  returned,  "  I  never  thought  of  that,  I  swear! " 

"And  it  is  you,"  she  cried,  with  scorn, — "you  who 
stand  there  and  look  at  me  and  tell  me  that  it  is  all 
over ! " 

"Is  it  my  fault  that  it  is  all  over?"  he  demanded. 
"Is  it?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  that  is  nay  consolation." 


"IT  WILL  BE  TO   YOU."  373 

He  drew  nearer  to  her. 

"  You  left  me  nothing,"  he  said, — "  nothing.  God 
knows  what  saved  me — I  do  not.  You  loved  me  ?  You 
battled  against  your  love  ? "  He  laughed  aloud.  "  I  was 
a  madman  under  your  window  night  after  night.  Forget 
it,  if  you  can.  I  cannot.  '  Oh !  that  I  should  have 
stooped  for  this,'  you  say.  No,  it  is  that  I  who  have  loved 
you  should  stand  here  with  empty  hands ! " 

She  had  bowed  her  face  and  was  sobbing  again.  But 
suddenly  she  rose. 

"  If  I  did  not  know  you  better,"  she  said,  "  I  should  say 
this  was  revenge." 

"  It  would  be  but  a  poor  one,"  he  answer  tl  her  coldly. 

She  supported  herself  with  one  hand  on  the  chair. 

"  I  have  fallen  very  low,"  she  said,  "  so  low  that  I  was 
weaker  than  1  thought.  And  now,  as  you  say,  'it  is 
over.'  Your  hands  are  empty !  Oh !  it  was  a  poor  pas 
sion,  and  this  is  the  fitting  end  for  it!" 

She  moved  a  little  toward  the  door  and  stopped. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said. 

In  a  moment  more  all  that  was  left  was  a  subtle  breath 
of  flower-like  fragrance  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  bare 
/oorn. 

It  was  an  hour  before  he  passed  through  the  iron  gates, 
though  there  had  been  nothing  left  to  be  done  inside. 

He  came  out  slowly,  and  having  locked  the  gate,  turned 
coward  the  Broxtou  road. 

He  was  going  to  the  little  graveyard.  It  had  been  a 
dull  gray  day,  but  by  the  time  he  reached  the  place,  the 
sun  had  crept  through  the  clouds  and  brightened  them, 
and  noting  it  he  felt  some  vague  comfort.  It  was  a  deso 
late  place  when  there  was  no  sun. 


374:  "HAWORTH'S" 

When  he  reached  the  mound  he  stood  looking  down. 
Since  the  night  he  had  lain  by  it  looking  up  at  the  sky 
and  had  made  his  resolve,  the  grass  had  grown  longer  and 
thicker  and  turned  from  green  to  brown. 

He  spoke  aloud,  just  as  he  had  done  before. 

"It  is  done,"  he  said.  "Your  thought  was  what  you 
dreamed  it  would  be.  I  have  kept  my  word." 

He  stopped  as  if  for  an  answer.  But  it  was  very  still — 
so  still  that  the  silence  was  like  a  Presence.  And  the 
mound  at  his  feet  lay  golden  brown  in  the  sunlight,  even 
its  long  grass  unstirred. 

They  left  Broxton  the  next  day  and  in  a  week  he  set 
sail.  As  the  ship  moved  away  he  stood  leaning  upon  the 
taffrail  watching  a  figure  on  the  shore.  It  was  a  girl  in  a 
long  cloak  of  gray  almost  the  color  of  the  mist  in  which 
she  stood — a  slender  motionless  figure — the  dark  young 
face  turned  seaward. 

He  watched  her  until  he  could  see  her  face  no  longer, 
but  still  she  had  not  stirred. 

"  When  I  return,"  he  said,  scarcely  conscious  that  he 
spoke,  "  when  I  return — it  will  be  to  you." 

Then  the  grayness  closed  about  her  and  she  faded 
slowly  from  his  sight. 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made 
4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


DD20   15M  4-02 


__!__ 

LD  21-100w,-12, '43  (8'. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


